


Every Monster that Sleeps Inside You

by treefrogie84



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU from 8.12, African Dream Root, Aftermath of Terrorism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Dogs, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon minor character deaths, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical dubcon, Charlie Bradbury Lives, Dean Winchester's poor decision making, Demon Dean Winchester, Drunk Sex, Eldritch Creature Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), F/F, Gen, Giving Abaddon the death she deserved, Hallucinations, Harm to Animals, Hellhound Juliet, Hellhounds, Kevin Tran Lives, M/M, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Minor Dorothy Baum/Charlie Bradbury, Panic Attacks, Season 10 fix-it, Temporary Character Death, Terrorism, Torture, Vampires, season 9 fix-it, spanish flu epidemic of 1917, terror attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-06-03 23:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 46
Words: 244,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19474072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: Attempting the trials to close Hell lets loose something far worse than the occasional crossroads demon or Dean’s second favorite drinking buddy. Heaven wants all the tablets they can get their hands on, Abaddon wants to destroy everything in favor of utter chaos in Hell as well as on Earth, and somehow, Sam and Dean have to stop all of it.Except stopping Abaddon might take more from Dean than he can afford to give.A Mark of Cain fix-it starting at 8.12 As Time Goes By.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a long eighteen months to get to the point where I can begin to publish this thing. Getting this far took a village and I can’t even begin to thank everyone enough. Mediocre Meta (Trisscar, Grey, Thayer, Foop, Beaker, Nox, Pherryt, and Shixpe) held my hand, helped with characterization, played technical advisor, worked out scenarios, and reassured me that they would read this even if no one else did. Weekend Writing Marathon held my hand too and kept having sprints, forcing me to actually work on things, even when they were hard or boring or I was so burnt out I wanted to quit. Yet more thanks to Dorkily, Solstice, Historian, and Allie who listened to me bitch about this in meatspace, read over bits, edited more bits, and were generally the best coffee shop mates you could ask for.
> 
> Thank you so much, y’all. Love you.
> 
> (If you recognize it, it probably doesn’t belong to me.)  
> **Note re: tags-- I utterly failed to keep track of tags while I was writing this. While the above has most of them, more will be added as I edit. If you think I need to add one, _please let me know_ **

  
  


Henry takes her coat, hangs it in the closet with his own before passing back their regalia. If she had any use for kindness, she would call him sweet. Instead, she barely keeps herself from rolling her eyes as Henry prattles on.

He graciously allows her to lead the way upstairs, eager to follow her to the inner temple where dottering fools will subject them to their final examinations and initiation. She’s tested him before-- he really does believe in the Mission and, even more laughably, his marriage vows. Whatever secrets he thinks will be revealed tonight, he will be disappointed.

She smiles at him when he compliments her dress. Actually, he’ll be dead, consumed. The wife and child too, along with everyone else.

The preceptor comes out of the small anteroom at the top of the stairs, somehow managing to look down his nose at her, despite being two inches shorter. “Miss Sands?”

Carefully, she pushes her rage and bloodlust to the side, they will not serve her right now. She’s so close; once she has the key, she can move with impunity. She smooths the skirt of her dress as she stands, smiling politely at the preceptor before following him into the room.

The wards snap into place behind her as soon as the door closes, trapping her in here. Not a devil’s trap-- nothing so common could hold her-- but older, tracing back to the very earliest of humanity. Stiffening, she watches the men in the room with her. They don’t react, either failing to notice or ignoring something as absurd as a case of nerves.

“Miss Sands, if you’ll take your place.” The old man moves through the room, standing across from the door. He waves a hand, and the lights dim as other men light the candles on the floor in front of them.

“Of course,” she says sweetly, taking the petitioner’s position. He has the key on him, tucked in his robes, she can smell the cloves and thyme and sandalwood on him.

Before she leaves this place, that key will be hers.

Ganem is halfway through the first recitation when her impatience overtakes her.

The first man is missing his throat before anyone realizes she’s moved, unable to even scream. The second screams when she plunges her hand into his chest, squeezing his heart to a stop before ripping it out and tossing it over her shoulder.

Ganem starts to stutter out an exorcism, still holding his ridiculous props, pretending that he has any power at all. Drawing on her power-- even in a well warded room, she’s more powerful than they can possibly be prepared for-- she draws a line across his eyes. The flesh sizzles, the stink of burning hair and cartilage covering years of burning wax. The exorcism cuts off with a scream as he falls to his knees.

“Give me the key, Ganem.”

Moaning, he shakes his head.

Before she can pick him up, Henry forces his way through the door behind her, opening the wards.

Her form explodes outward, abandoning her meatsuit and crushing the men into the walls. Her wings, huge and bat-like, flap twice, extinguishing the candles. Only a couple of light bulbs survive in the chandelier, flickering as it sways violently in the breeze.

Ganem twists free of her grip, running towards the door. A twist of her tail trips him.

Henry reaches him before she does. She watches as Ganem presses a wooden box, about the size of his palm, into Henry’s hands, pushing him away. “Go! She must not get it!”

Pushing her bulk towards the door, she jams herself back into Josie Sands’ inert body-- better suited for these narrow passageways-- and chases after Henry.

The door slams shut before she reaches it, reengaging the wards and trapping her. Drawing in a breath, she _screams_ out her frustration, locusts bursting out of the softened wax and covering every surface.

Dimly, she feels a pulse of soul magic, taking her prey out of her reach. Turning, she watches as more locusts alight on the bodies. “That key is mine, Ganem. You never should have trusted Henry with it.”

Ganem laughs harshly, sightless eyes still bleeding as he turns, “It will never be yours. You’re trapped in here.”

Stalking over to him, she crouches and traces a finger along his cheek and jaw. The flesh reddens, crisps, burns behind her touch. “And you’re in here with me.” Holding his jaw firmly, she leans down and kisses him in a mockery of tenderness. His mouth fills with blood and locusts immediately, making him gag and sputter. “Well, lover, however shall we pass the time?”

The locusts rise in a cloud, dry papery legs landing on the walls and the dead men. Low moans rise from the two who aren’t quite dead yet, until they are smothered under the weight of thousands of insects.

“What?” Ganem asks. “What have you done?”

She smiles and watches as the swarm gets to work.

The wards fail in minutes, the sigils carved into the plaster destroyed by millions of barbed legs and voracious mouths. Standing, she drags Ganem to his feet. He’s in shock, choking on his own blood, barely conscious. Extruding the smallest part of her true self, she claws through his memories, dragging out the locations of the other chapters of the Men of Letters before letting him drop.

If she cannot have their treasure house, she will settle for destroying its keepers.

It takes nothing to fly to the other locations and destroy them. Meetings in all the chapter houses, the membership crammed into buildings across the continent.

They all _burn_.

The angels catch up with her somewhere over an ocean, forcing her to Earth and chaining her. Raphael drags her, still trapped in her meatsuit, into the bowels of Hell, carving her prison from the salt-tears of the treacherous and forcing her inside.

The last thing she sees before they seal the ice over her head is Lucifer watching sadly behind the twisted and thorny bars of his cage.

* * *

Dean’s still tying his boots when the closet door flings itself open and a dude in an antique blue suit comes tumbling out. His gun is trained on the guy almost before Sam turns around to see the commotion, snatching his own pistol from the table.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean barks, jumping to his feet.

There’s something familiar about him, but Dean can’t place him.

Pushing himself to his feet, the man carefully keeps his hands spread and raised, “Which of you is John Winchester?” He peers curiously at both their faces before shaking his head. “I mean you no harm.”

“Sure,” Sam comments. “We’re going to trust someone who appeared out of nowhere.”

The man huffs and drops his hands, resettling his suit jacket and rebuttoning it. “If you’ll please just direct me to John, I’m sure we can straighten all this out.”

Dean chances a glance over at Sam, raising an eyebrow in question. Sam shrugs and tilts his head-- Dean’s call. Trusting Sam to keep his gun up, Dean lowers his own. “Hate to break it to you pal, but John’s been dead for over five years.”

“What?” He does look genuinely staggered at that news at least. “The spell…” he trails off, muttering to himself.

“Yeah, the spell, whatever.” Dean rolls his eyes, watching as Sam tucks his gun into the back of his jeans. “You spend a lot of time leaping between closets?”

Suit glances up. His eyes take in everything Dean’s wearing, the few scattered belongings that haven’t been packed yet-- mostly because they’re crusted in mud from last night’s grave digging and Dean doesn’t want to pack them in with his clean clothes-- and he sighs. “Hunters. Of course. It’s nothing you’ll be able to understand. Just take me to the nearest chapter house. I have to warn them.”

“Right,” Dean drawls. “The nearest chapter house. Of what?”

Sam inches closer out of the corner of his eye, close enough to grab the guy if he makes a run for it.

“The Men of Letters. You must know of them if you knew John.”

Sam shakes his head. “He told us a lot of stories over the years, never mentioned anything about Men of Letters. Now, again. Who the hell are you?”

Sighing, Suit draws himself up and sticks out a hand, “Henry Winchester.”

Numbly, Dean shakes Henry’s hand, “Dean… Winchester.” He’s pretty sure the floor didn’t just open up under him, but…

“I’m sorry, did you say Henry?” Sam breaks Dean’s shock, makes him drop Henry’s hand.

“Yes. And I’m afraid I don’t understand what the hold up is.” He glances at the closet behind him. “Whatever your reasons, we need to _go._ I don’t know how close she is to following me.”

“Who’s following you?” Sam asks, looking as confused as Dean still feels.

“The last Knight of Hell,” Henry says. “Abaddon.”

Dean meets Sam’s eyes and nods. Snapping into action, they toss the last of their things into bags and haul Henry out the door and into the Impala. They can figure out what’s going on when they’re miles from here.

* * *

Hours later, they’re sitting in a small diner off the highway, tables slightly sticky with old grease, staring at the man who claims to be their grandfather over a couple of burgers and a cup of coffee.

“I don’t understand,” Henry says, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug in front of him. “Even if I was gone, the other members of my chapter… They should have taken care of John and Millie.”

“Don’t know what to tell you man, Dad never mentioned any Men of Letters.” Dean huffs, picking at the fries on his plate. “Hell, he barely mentioned you.”

Sam hauls Dad’s journal out of his jacket pocket, elbowing Dean into silence and pushes it at Henry. “Dad didn’t talk about much. But everything is in there.” Jerking his head towards the register, he grabs the check without waiting for Dean to follow him.

“You cannot be believing this shit,” Dean says quietly once they’re a few feet from the table. “Secret societies? Dragons? C’mon, Sam.”

“I don’t know,” Sam hisses back. “But it doesn’t hurt to hear him out. He certainly knows a lot about Dad.”

“So he did his research!”

“All he wants is to find this Men of Letters group, Dean. It won’t hurt us to check it out. What’s the worst that’s going to happen, we waste a day driving to Illinois?”

Dean huffs, but nods. “Fine. But if this blows up, I’m blaming you.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

Henry spends several hours of the drive east absorbed in Dad’s journal, turning pages in a horrified fascination. “I… This isn’t what was supposed to happen. John never should have been a hunter, he was a _legacy_.”

Sam sighs before twisting in his seat. “We don’t know what happened. Maybe Millie moved before they could contact her, or something else happened.”

“His life sucked enough without adding more bullshit to it,” Dean cuts in. “A stinking war, losing his wife, hunting, only to be killed by the same fucking demon that killed Mom.” He pauses for a moment, “You said the Winchesters were legacies?”

“We’ve been members of the Men of Letters for generations.”

Dean glances over at Sam, “Guess that explains why Heaven was so interested in getting Dad and Mom together.”

“Winchester and Campbell.” Sam snorts and runs a hand through his hair. Of fucking course. “Brains and brawn. Everything the perfect vessel needs.”

They’re silent for a long moment, watching the road in front of them.

Abruptly, Dean spins the car onto the side of the road, throwing up gravel behind them. Throwing the flashers on, he slams the door of the car closed behind him, bending down to snatch a handful of gravel from the shoulder and flinging it into the empty cornfield a few steps away.

“Dean!” Sam jumps out of the car, “What the hell?”

Dean runs a hand through his hair, spiking it up crazily. “They were screwed. They were always going to be screwed. What chance did Mom and Dad even fucking have, with the full weight of Heaven bearing down on them?”

“Maybe…” Sam starts before cutting himself off. “No, you’re right. They never stood a chance. Damn it.” Even after everything, he’s tried to keep his faith in God. But now, staring at yet more proof that they’re just the results of thousands of years worth of plotting and engineering, he feels his faith crack a little more.

Dean sighs beside him, looking over the barren field. “Goddammit. Just… fuck.”

“Yeah.” Sam has no idea what Henry thinks is going on and can’t really bring himself to care. Nudging Dean with his shoulder, he turns back to the car. “C’mon. Let’s get to Normal and get this figured out.”

The rest of the trip goes about as smoothly as it can be expected. Dean brightens up a few times when his phone dings with a text message, but the smile slides right back off his face as soon as he sees who sent it. Sam’d normally try to get his phone away from him to see who keeps texting him but Dean’s sullen enough.

And if it’s Benny, he’d rather not know. Not after that bullshit in Louisiana.

* * *

Henry gets them lost twice, trying to get them to his secret headquarters of whatever. Apparently, he didn’t think about the fact that town might have grown in the last fifty years. Dean finally just plugs the address into the GPS on his phone and ignores Henry’s increasingly confused directions.

There’s not much left of the downtown-- the old buildings that are still standing are filled with little mom and pop antique and knick-knack shops, the ones that have been rebuilt are full of chain stores-- but the address Henry gives them is still around. The building looks like any secret society building Dean’s seen over the years-- white washed brick, intricate brick patterns on the second floor.

Henry looks horrified at the neon open sign surrounded by posters for comic book events, local concerts and high school plays. “What… It’s a clever disguise.”

“Sure it is,” Dean drawls. Meeting Sam’s eyes over the top of the car, Dean frowns before nodding towards the door. “Might as well go ask.”

Henry outstrips them both crossing the street, hurrying down the sidewalk only to stop short of pulling the door open. He raps a knuckle on the door beneath a painted-over carving-- a six-pointed star that Dean vaguely recognizes-- and says, “They’re still here. We’ve existed for thousands of years by going into hiding whenever something threatens us.”

“Sure,” Sam says before pulling the door open and ushering them all inside. “We’ll find them.”

Dean very much doubts that, but whatever keeps Henry from freaking out in public. Sam and Henry immediately start towards the back of the store, poking into the old corners. Dean takes a few moments to thumb through a few of the boxes before giving it up. He’s years behind on the few series he read and not going to have a chance to get caught up anytime soon.

The girl sitting at the counter can’t be more than twenty, a stack of textbooks on the stool beside her while she’s bent over a comic. She looks up from the brightly colored pages as he approaches, “Hi, can I help you find anything?”

Glancing around the store, he shakes his head, “Nah. I’m so far behind that I wouldn’t even know where to start. Was wondering if you had a computer I could borrow for a moment?” He jerks his thumb back toward Sam and Henry in the front corner. “My brother and friend were wondering about the history of this place.”

She grins up at him, flipping her book closed and pushing it to the side, “And you tagging along had nothing to do with the books?”

Dean rotates the book so he can read the title-- Saga-- before leaning against the counter. “Eh, they don’t… Guilty pleasure.” He glances towards her before refocusing on the computer she spins towards him. “You know anything about the history of this place?”

She shrugs before ducking out from behind the counter. “Not really. I mean, it’s been a comic book shop for a few years. Mom said it was a porn shop when she was here in the early nineties.” She meanders over towards some of the back catalog, “I think it was a Masonic Temple or something originally. You said you were years behind. What were you reading?”

He glances up from where he’s searching newspaper archives, “Uh… Nothing really intense. Batman, Superman. That Gaiman series.”

“Sandman?”

“Yeah. That’s it.” Dean turns around in time to see Sam slip behind the curtain marked _No Entrance-- Employees Only_. Henry is nowhere to be seen, must already be back there. “But this was like ten years ago, so I don’t really--”

“Nope,” she cuts him off, coming back to the counter. “You liked the Avengers movie last summer right?”

He taps a finger on the counter, ignoring the flash of pain that comes with the reminder of Benny and Purgatory, and nods.

She frowns, lays down a stack of three books, “Sorry, didn’t mean to bring up anything.” He waves it off and exits his search tab-- it wasn’t telling him anything useful anyway. “Anyway, one collection of the current run of Hawkeye-- the archer guy from Avengers-- and Batwoman.”

“No Batman?” Dean picks up Batwoman and thumbs through it curiously. The art’s better than he remembers it being growing up and… he pauses on a panel, the detective asking Batwoman out in front of a photo of Batwoman’s dead girlfriend. Oh.

She shrugs, “We can pull some out, but honestly, it’s not in a good place to start new right now. The reboot a couple years ago cleaned things up, but--” She cuts herself off and looks up at him. “Give it a shot. If you don’t like it, bring it back, and we’ll trade it for something else.”

Her face changes when she looks up, enough of a warning for Dean to brace himself for Sam’s hand to land on his shoulder. “Find anything interesting?”

“Not about the history of the building,” Dean says, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and nodding. “We’re just passing through, but I’ll trust you,” he says to the girl, passing her a couple of twenties and waving away the bag.

She scribbles something on the receipt and tucks it inside one of the books before passing them over. “Have fun with your architecture search!”

Sam is giggling as they exit the store, trying to come up with something to tease Dean about and failing. Henry is harder, alternating between glaring at Sam and being utterly confused.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean sighs, tossing his books in the truck of the car before slamming it shut. “You two find anything?”

“No,” Henry says dejectedly. “None of the signs I was taught were there. It must have been abandoned and sold before anyone could leave instructions.”

Dean pulls open the driver’s door and drops into the Impala. “I couldn’t find anything with a quick search, so let’s find the library, see what else we can find.” He tosses his phone onto the dash, waiting impatiently for Sam and Henry to get in.

* * *

Staring at the list of names scribbled onto a motel room pad, Sam is grateful that Dean decided to take Henry out to explore the town a little bit. Every single person on the list is dead, many of them on the same night and buried in the same cemetery.

But he has enough information now to start looking for the Men of Letters in other locations, places that Henry didn’t mention. It’s past dinner time when he tosses his pen down on his notepad and leans back in his chair, rubbing at his temples.

Over a hundred fires and explosions, in dozens of cities, in a single night. Dozens killed in the fires and the surrounding areas, all well-educated white men. It’s too many deaths to be easily explained, but weather history is sketchy. There’s no way to know if this was a coordinated demonic attack or something else, although the sheer scale lends credibility to _something_ supernatural.

Looking at the list, Sam pours himself a drink and wishes Bobby was still around. He’d have something about what they’re looking at, some off-hand piece of knowledge, or a scrap of lore that would lock everything into place.

Bobby’d have a way to tell Henry that the entire Men of Letters organization is defunct. Or could tell Sam how to find them again if they aren’t all gone.

Dean and Henry come tumbling in about an hour later, bearing a bag of takeout and a six-pack of beer. Sam’s lost track of how many times he’s refilled his glass, but his notes are still legible at least.

“Sammy, what’s up?” Dean drops the takeout on the table before starting to strip off his jacket.

“It’s Sam,” he snorts, passing the notebook to Dean. “Everything I could find. Names, other branches, burial records…”

Henry looks up sharply from across the table, “Burials? There shouldn’t be need for that.”

Sam abruptly loses all his patience. Time to make Henry face facts. “It’s been nearly fifty years since you disappeared-- which we only have your word on, by the way-- even if nothing happened that night, there would still be graves. People die. More than that, it’s not just the men you reported as being there that night. It’s _everyone_.”

“Sam?” Dean asks curiously.

“Everything I could find. Newspapers are a bit sketchy because not everything’s been digitized yet, but obits and everything else. Near as I can tell, the Men of Letters were wiped out.”

Henry snatches the notebook out of Dean’s hands, pouring over it. Sam watches him for a few moments before gesturing for Dean to hand over some of the takeout. Beef with Broccoli isn’t his favorite, but at least it has more vegetables than the General Tso’s Dean has in his hands.

Pushing the last container-- sesame chicken-- towards Henry, Sam leans back and taps idly at his computer.

“Here,” Henry points towards one of the names listed as having died in Normal. “Albert Magnus. It’s a code phrase. Maybe there’s something there, like a way to find where any survivors went.”

“Alright,” Sam drawls, barely able to keep from rolling his eyes. “Eat and then we’ll go.”

* * *

It’s full dark by the time they find the graves. The cemetery is overgrown and abandoned, and they spend over an hour tripping over fallen headstones and tree branches trying to find the right plot. The Letters’ stones are already tipping over due to frost-heave, the limestone being taken over by lichen and moss.

Albert’s grave is the last one they find, away from the others and buried under bracken thick enough Dean ends up fetching a machete from the car to clear it.

Henry stands to the side while they work, watching with horrified fascination while they uncover the headstone and remove enough of the lichen that they can read it.

“Let me see it,” Henry demands as soon as it’s clear. Pushing his flashlight into Dean’s hand, he crouches to run his fingers over the carvings. After a moment, he recites out, “Thirty-nine fifty; ninety-eight thirty-something.”

“What?”

“That’s what our good friend Albert had to say.” Henry pushes himself to his feet and brushes off his hands. “Coordinates, probably. For what the key unlocks.”

Right. The key-box that Henry had carried with him into the future. “Sure,” Sam says distractedly, trying to plot the location in his head. Somewhere in the midwest, not terribly far north.

“Let’s go then.” Dean snaps one of the flashlights in his hands off, sliding it into his jacket pocket and dragging the bracken back over the grave. “We already checked out of the motel, we can get a few hours drive in while you two eggheads figure out where we’re going.”

* * *

Sam’s asleep in the passenger seat when Dean slows to a stop outside an abandoned power plant built into the side of a hill in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. Henry is awake but silent in the backseat, staring at the sun rising over the empty fields. He’s been silent since the last stop for gas, when Dean had snapped at him for dithering too much over his road snack choices.

The building towers over them, hidden from the prairie by the hill it’s built into. There’s a poorly maintained gravel road in front, and a single set of steps down to a reinforced door.

Dean nudges Sam awake. “Whatever is here, it’s big.”

Henry, who appears to have decided that Dean is the stupid one since the stop at the comic book shop, looks at him blandly before gesturing towards the door, “How astute.”

Dean rolls his eyes and slides out of the driver’s seat, making a beeline for the trunk. He pulls out an extra angel blade and checks his gun, waiting for Sam and Henry to follow. “Alright,” he says, slamming the trunk closed and turning his attention to Henry. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

“It’s actually--” Henry cuts himself off once he gets a glimpse of Dean’s face. “You don’t care. Of course.”

“Just unlock the door, Henry.” Dean resists the urge to rub at his temples.

It takes all three of them to pull open the door, even after it’s been unlocked. Decades of decayed leaves and erosion have deposited inches of dirt and mud in the steps, enough that Dean half thinks they might need to grab one of the shovels from the trunk before they manage to drag it open.

“Hold up,” Sam says, a hand on Dean’s arm to keep him from entering. “Let’s give it a few minutes, get some air circulating in there before we go tramping in. Last thing we need is to die from noxious gases or whatever.”

Dean snorts, “As opposed every time you have Mexican?” Tramping up towards the car, he drags his boots through the dry grass to get the worst of the mud off and grabs the flashlights. He’s tempted to grab the shovel too, but like hell he’s going to bother cleaning this place up before they know what’s inside.

Sam allows them to enter the tunnel behind the door after another twenty minutes, fretting the entire time about bad air and toxic levels of nitrogen and King Tut’s tomb. Dean tunes him out after a couple minutes.

Forcing Henry behind him, Dean leads the way down the cinderblock tunnel. It’s not long, just enough to act as a defense if needed.

“Sam,” Dean jerks his thumb towards the door at the inner end of the tunnel. “Count of three?”

Sam nods, grabbing the door handle, and counting down before yanking the door open.

There’s nothing on the other side, other than a railing directly in front of them.

“The air’s not stale,” Dean points out, running a hand along the railing in front of them. “There must be some sort of air exchange or something.”

Sam nods, carefully making his way down the steps and to the ground floor. “Stairs look solid. Henry, any idea what this place is?” He sweeps his flashlight around, the beam glinting off glass and metal along the sides of the room.

“I’d heard rumors, but…” Henry trails off, slowing approaching the handrail and moving his flashlight around. “If this is what I think it is, this is the greatest collection of supernatural lore ever seen. All the Men of Letters files, their research, _everything_ , collected in one place.”

“Awesome. A Batcave.” Dean carefully edges around the staircase towards the other side of the balcony. A pair of leather chairs pushed away from the table, a chess game in progress, and a cup of coffee so old that even the mold inside is dead. “Whoever was here, they left in a hurry.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees from below, focused on something along the wall.

“Watch out,” Henry calls, before moving a lever. A moment later, there’s a slight hum in the distance and the lights slowly come up.

Looking over the edge, Dean lets out a slow whistle, “It really is a Batcave.”

Henry flips a second switch and closes the circuit box next to the door, before turning to look around. “There should be a directory in the library…” He trails off as he bolts down the staircase, feet clattering on the metal steps and through a doorway at the other end of the room.

The decorations at the top of the walls catches his eye before Dean can follow Henry down the staircase. “Sam, look.”

“Whoa,” Sam says, awed. “That’s… a lot of warding.” He’s silent for a moment before continuing, “I don’t even _recognize_ some of these. Bobby’d have a fit if he could see them.”

Dean smirks as he comes down the stairs. “Closer to copy it all down, figure out what makes it tick, and make sure every hunter had it on their home within days.”

Sam makes a half smile, looking away quickly.

Dean takes his time looking around, checking for booby traps or whatever. He doesn’t find any traps, but he does find the kitchen, several long hallways, and the bathroom. Finding his way back to the library and entrance room takes longer than it should-- he didn’t think he took that many turns, but he’s thoroughly turned around-- but he eventually finds Henry and Sam pouring over bookshelves and manila folders.

Henry slaps a folder down on the table, flipping it open to what looks like a duty log and running a finger down the entries. “Here. William Boyle and Arthur Booth, posted here on January third, 1958. Regular check ins, helped a few trusted hunters over the next several months.” He purses his lips, flips another page. “They received a distress signal from several chapter houses on the night of… August twelfth and... It just stops there.”

“Let me see it,” Sam demands, snatching the notebook from Henry’s side of the table.

“What night was it when you did your thing?” Dean asks quietly, ignoring Sam’s mumbles.

“August twelfth. That’s when the ceremonies for certain degree ascensions are held… Or in February.”

“So it all happened on the same night.” Dean frowns, looking at the piles of books they’ve already pulled from the shelves. “And you never went home.”

Henry stares at him like he’s saying the most obvious thing ever, “The spell is one way. I wouldn’t have used it if there was a different option. I had hoped--” he cuts himself off. “It doesn’t matter. Someone arranged for the burial and carving of the headstones in Normal and probably everywhere else too. Boyle and Booth are the best candidates. We must find them and the rest of the survivors.”

“You realize they’re going to be nearly a hundred years old,” Dean points out.

“Then they will have passed their knowledge to their sons. We survive because we can hide. But with the demon gone, it is time to rebuild.”

Dean doesn’t think it’s going to be that simple, but whatever Henry wants to do. He’s manifestly unsuited to be a hunter, and he can’t be a civilian either. Maybe they can start to rebuild Bobby’s old network with Henry and Kevin acting as dispatch.

“Sure. You find them. I’m gonna grab a shower and a nap before Sam and I get out of your hair, though.”

“You don’t need to leave, Dean. I’m going to. You boys stay here. Familiarize yourself with the information needed for the lower degrees. It’s time you were initiated.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and meets Sam’s eyes. “Okay…”

“That’s settled then.” Henry marches back towards the entrance, clearly expecting them to follow him. “We’ll need to remove the weapons from the car of course, I have--”

“Oh, hell no,” Dean barks out. “You want to go find your old friends from Narnia, sure. But you’re not taking my Baby. Get your own freaking car.”

“I need a way to get around during my search.”

“So we’ll get you your own car, your own set of ID, the works. But that car--” he gestures toward the exit “-- is mine, and you’re not touching her.”

“I’m sorry? John did teach you respect, correct? The oldest person who needs it gets the use of the family car.”

“Are you… You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Dean stares at him, agast. “You walked out on Dad when he was four fucking years old. You know what he taught me? How to drive before I could see over the wheel. How to identify claw marks and which ones needed purification with holy water before the stitches went in. Follow orders and protect Sammy, and figure out a way to make it work if those conflicted with each other.” He inhales sharply, trying to regain the leash on his temper. “Dad taught me a lot, but the only things he ever _gave_ me were a pistol and that car. You’re not taking it.”

“You ungrateful--”

“Henry,” Sam snaps, crossing his arms. “It’s not happening. We’ll find a car you can take later today or tomorrow.”

Henry fixes them both with a cold glare before turning and heading deeper into the hallways and passages. Hopefully, he’ll get lost in this place for a good few hours.


	2. Chapter 2

Henry is gone by morning. Dean doesn’t know how and doesn’t really care. Hiked into town, browbeat Sam into giving him a ride, whatever. Gives Dean more time to figure out what exactly is going on in their new base of operations.

The kitchen isn’t precisely a disaster-- they grew up with worse-- just… old and abandoned. Even the canned food needs to be trashed and the fridge should be nuked from orbit. He finds an old stovetop percolator in one of the cabinets and scrounges up a half-full can of coffee from his duffle. It’s not great-- the coffee is stale and the water tastes like an iron nail-- but it’s enough caffeine to get him going.

Dean abandons the pretense of treating this like just another shitty motel when he starts the third shopping list while dreaming about decorating his room. He loses hours picking and cleaning out rooms for Kevin and Cas, only surfacing when Sam shouts down the hallway that he brought back pizza.

Sam stares at him over the library table. “What have you been doing?”

Running a hand through his hair, Dean pulls it away covered in dust and cobwebs. “Uh... cleaning out a couple of guest rooms. Away from Henry’s room. Figured this was probably safer for Kevin and anyone else who might need a safe house.”

“We are not moving in here,” Sam says firmly, passing a couple slices of pizza Dean’s way. “We’re either hunting or we’re building a life. You can’t have it both ways!”

“What do you want from me, Sam?” Dean sinks lower in his chair, looking around them. “I’m trying to meet you halfway here. You know that Kevin’s not safe where he is. I cut off contact with Benny, Cas is in the wind…” He sighs, picks at the label on his beer. “I thought this was what you wanted. A home base.”

“That’s different, Henry’s--”

“So help me, if the word family comes out of your mouth,” Dean threatens, “I will fucking punch you.”

“Whatever, Dean,” Sam snaps, “That’s always your excuse. Family. It’s just a bit hypocritical if I don’t get to trust someone because of blood ties but you get to trust whoever in the fucking hell you want.”

Dean grits his teeth and looks away. He’s got about a dozen choice words he’d love to use right about now. Instead, he snatches another piece of pizza and disappears back down the hallway. He’s got other shit to do.

His stomach drives him back to the main areas of the Bunker that evening, searching for something quick and easy to eat before he skulks back to his room. Sam’s sitting at one of the tables in the library, laptop pulled up in front of him and a pile of files to the side.

Beckoning Dean over, he pulls up a browser window already pointing at a news report. “You want to hunt? Great. I caught us a case.”

“How?” Dean asks, “There’s no way this place has an internet connection, let alone wi-fi.”

“Maybe one of the kids -- or grandkids -- let themselves in and wired the place up.” Sam shrugs, “I’m not going to question it right now. More important things.”

“Sure,” he says shortly. There’s no way that’s going to come bite them in the ass later. “What’s up?”

“Spontaneous human combustion with a side of Nazis.”

“ _And_ you have my attention.”

* * *

The hunt goes… alright. They manage to save Aaron at any rate, kill some racist dirtbags.

Nazi necromancers. Just when Sam thinks he’s seen everything.

And now he’s stuck in the car again, driving halfway across the country back to the Bunker-- unless they find a hunt, in which case, they’ll go haring off in some other direction and it’ll be weeks before they’re back there. What’s the point of having a home base if they’re never there to enjoy it?

Dean might be willing to forever zigzag across the country, but after his year with Amelia… Sam’s just not feeling it anymore. He _wants_ stability, a chance to maybe stop traveling all the time.

Maybe if they get Bobby’s network back off the ground or something like it, they can cut down on missed hunts, dead hunters... The thought preoccupies Sam for the entire drive from Wilkes-Barre to the Fizzle’s Follies current mooring somewhere in the Lake of the Ozarks. If they can rebuild, connect everyone, use the Men of Letters Bunker as a safehouse and research center…

Henry would throw a fit, but he also thinks hunters are barely worthy to wipe the mud from his shoes.

“So… moving into the Bunker--” Sam starts, turning to face Dean as he accelerates up a hill. “Did you have a plan for that or just…”

Dean glances over at him before returning his eyes to the road. “I’m tired of living out of rat traps, man. It’s safe, it’s centrally located, it has enough lore books to make Bobby’s library cry…”

“What if we brought other hunters in? Used it for how it should have been used from the start-- all that lore, and they did nothing but stare at it. Allow access to it, Bobby’s phone tree, all of it.”

“That’s a lot bigger than I was thinking, but it might work.”

They hash it out over the rest of the drive. They don’t get very far in actual planning, but they’re at least on the same page.

Kevin looks like shit when they get to the houseboat, the particular kind of sick from too much instant ramen and hot dogs and not enough real food. They bundle him into the car, abandoning the houseboat where it’s moored. Garth can find it when he’s done with his current hunt, where ever in the hell that is that took him.

“Do you know where my mom is?”

“Uh…” Sam glances at Dean who shrugs. “Last we heard, she was with you.”

“I kicked her out. She was distracting.”

“Did you try calling her?”

“Yes,” Kevin snaps. “I tried that first. She didn’t answer the phone.”

“We’ll take a look when we stop for the night. We’ll find her.”

* * *

There’s an unfamiliar sedan parked in front of the door, dark gray and boring in the way that screams cop. Sam glances over to Dean, shaking his head. “There’s no way they didn’t hear us coming up the drive.”

Lips tight, Dean nods once. “Kevin, stay in the car, keep the motor running. You and that hunk of clay are the most important things in this car. If things go bad, head towards Sioux Falls and talk to the sheriff. She’ll take care of you.”

“Sheriff, Sioux Falls, got it,” Kevin recites, leaning over the front seat. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about us,” Sam says soothingly. “This might be nothing after all.” Climbing out of the car, Sam resettles his gun in the back of his jeans, watching Dean do the same.

The door is unlocked, fresh prints in the slushy mud and tracking into the tunnel. They slide to opposite sides, moving as silently as possible until they’re at the inner door. Easing it open, Sam slides inside, feeling the air move as Dean follows him.

There’s three men, two sitting in the chairs by the map table, one facing the library while the other watches the stairs, and a third inspects the machinery and dials. They’ve been here for a while-- a pile of plates on the corner of the table, several mugs of coffee-- but there’s nothing to indicate what they’re waiting for.

Sam’s boot catches on the threshold of the door and the two guys in the chairs are on their feet in an instant, pointing guns towards the doorway. Sam doesn’t have a chance to move, dropping his hand to his gun before Dean pushes him out of the way.

“Well, hi fellas,” Dean calls out cockily, standing at the handrail. “You seem to be in our Bunker. Can I help you?”

The older guy, who’d been inspecting the dials, turns around to face them, grinning up at them with a shark’s smile. “I’m glad to see you in one piece. I was worried.”

“Sure. And who are you?” Dean spits out, slowly making his way down the stairs.

Sam stays where he is, watching the other two. He’s certain they won’t shoot without permission from White Hair, but better safe than sorry.

“Ah, yes. Where are my manners?” Extending a hand, he glances up towards Sam as well. “Monroe Styne.”

The name isn’t familiar, but that doesn’t mean much. His accent marks him as from the deep south, not an area they spend a lot of time in. Hunters down that way are strange, insular, hip deep in their own strange and terrible monsters to hunt outside of the swamps much.

“Dean Winchester, my brother Sam.” Dean doesn’t even try to be subtle, looming over Styne and tightly gripping his hand for a few seconds.

Styne doesn’t flinch or react in anyway. Rolling his eyes, Sam slides his pistol back into his jeans and heads down the stairs to greet their guests-- not that they know how in the hell they got in side, but Sam’s got a pretty good guess for that one.

Up close, the muscle are not identical, but look close enough alike that Sam would be willing to bet they’re brothers.

Monroe gestures to them broadly, “My son, Eldon, and nephew, Eli.”

Or _not_ brothers. Interesting. “Nice to meet you,” Sam says, trying to tell which one is which.

“So you boys are the ones who found the Bunker.” Monroe takes a couple steps back, leaning against the console. “Folks have been searching for this place for decades, you know. And a pair of uneducated hunters found it.”

Sam stares coldly at Monroe, “As uninvited guests, I think you can go now.”

“Uninvited? Your grandfather invited, nay _directed_ , us to come fetch the lore books we’ve been searching for. He’s around here somewhere, you can ask him.” Settling back against the console, he stretches his legs out and crosses his ankles, clearly at ease.

Sam meets Dean’s eyes and jerks his head towards the library and the corridors beyond.

Dean’s eyes harden, like he wants to argue, but he takes off in search for Henry.

The Stynes slump back into their chairs as soon as Dean’s out of the room, leaving just Sam and Monroe standing.

* * *

“Again,” the voice orders, light shining through the shelves of an… abandoned warehouse. Yes. That’s where he is. An abandoned warehouse on Earth.

Castiel drops his blade into his hand, flaring his wings to feel for any shift in the air currents. It’s silent, not even rats disturbing the silence that surrounds him. His quarry is here, somewhere, a small rebel that must be brought under Heaven’s control.

Stalking through the aisles, Castiel waits for the attack.

He knows there will be an attack, that the leader will be alone, will prefer a head-on confrontation over an ambush from the side, without knowing how he knows. A small part of him wonders about that but he ignores it. Heaven has always provided him with everything he needs, including information.

The air stirs a split second before the attack, giving him just enough time to turn to meet the rush of the blade with his own.

The man is fast, fast enough to keep up with Castiel and even push him back against the surrounding shelves. The lights glint off their locked knives, highlighting sandy-brown hair in the dim light.

“Stop,” Castiel commands, suddenly desperate to avoid killing this man. He doesn’t even know why, just that this… should not be.

His opponent doesn’t say anything, just grunts, before aiming a kick at Castiel’s knee.

It connects, forcing Castiel to his knees in front of him. “----” he calls out, there should be a name there, _he knows that name_ , “Stop! Please!”

The man reverses his grip on his blade, bringing it towards Castiel’s head hilt first.

A shudder runs through Castiel and he jerks his wing into the physical plane, pushing the knife away. The point twists, tears through the feathers and into the soft surface of the leading edge. Castiel _screams_ as grace leaks through the cut, the wing instinctively batting the human away.

He lands in a slump against a post further up the aisle, the dull thunk of his head against the pole echoing through the space followed by the clatter of his knife to the floor.

Dragging the rebel away from the post, Castiel straddles his hips, hovering over him.

The man’s mouth opens, a breathy moan, then “Cas?”

The word reverberates through his mind, ricocheting off something. He _knows_ this man, knows what he’s capable of, knows… Dean.

“Finish him.”

His hands obey the command, slamming his blade down into the man’s eye socket, pushing through the skull and into the floor.

Shaken, he sits back, watches in a daze as the shelves shimmer out of existence and the lights come up. The room is pure white, yellow pillars scattered throughout, bright the way only Heaven can be. Looking down, he gasps-- Dean’s face stares up at him, angel blade buried up to the hilt-- before raising his head.

Dozens of Dean copies scatter the floor, in a variety of positions, all lifeless, all dead, all killed by him.

Naomi doesn’t bother with dramatics when she makes herself known, simply appearing next to him. “You’re making progress, Castiel, but you’re still hesitating. You’re not ready yet.”

Two angels grab his arms before he can respond, dragging him away.

* * *

Dean breaks into a jog as soon as he’s around the corner from the library. Whatever these assholes are doing, he wants them out of the Bunker _now_. If that means kicking Henry out too, so be it. No great loss there. They can’t risk Kevin’s safety with folks they don’t know.

Pulling out his phone, he taps out a message to Kevin to go to Red Cloud, just north of the state line, and stay there. If he doesn’t hear from them in the next four hours, head to Jody’s.

That done, he resumes his search for Henry. He checks the logical places first-- the room he stayed in last week, the bathroom, even the shooting range-- with no luck. Resigning himself to wandering the corridors, Dean leans against the wall and closes his eyes.

He shouldn’t be able to hear boxes being shuffled around and quiet muttering, but he does. Following the noise down the hallway, he finds Henry flipping through files in a box, muttering to himself about the archives.

Dean clears his throat in the doorway and waits.

Henry sighs. “I told you to wait in the War Room. I’ll bring what I can find as soon as I find it.”

“Yeah, I’m not your buddies,” Dean responds.

Henry sighs again, sticking a finger between two files to mark his place. “Don’t you have something else to do? Something suitably caveman-like?”

“Nope,” Dean pops. “Just finished a hunt, you know, my _job_ , and decided to come back here to grab a shower.”

“Then do so and either leave or begin your studies.”

“What are you looking for?” Dean asks, ignoring Henry’s frustration. “I thought you were looking for other Men of Letters, but instead, you’re here again.”

“The Stynes are part of the organization. Not that I expect you to know what that means.”

“And you believe them? And I thought we trusted too easily.”

“Monroe knows all the passphrases through level ten. He was the only survivor of his chapter, home with his sick wife.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “That’s convenient.”

“Now having a sick spouse is suspicious?” Henry slams the lid back on the box. “Hunters, always thinking with their guns.” Pushing past Dean, he walks back towards the main living areas.

Dean follows him at a loss for what else to do. Something about the Stynes just isn’t sitting right, and he doesn’t think it’s because he’s never heard of them. He’s never heard of a lot of hunters, but very few of them ever rubbed him the wrong way like this.

“Mr. Styne, thank you for your patience,” Henry says, pulling a book from… somewhere. “Here’s the first of the volumes you were looking for, the Codex.”

Monroe eagerly picks it up, roughly flipping through the pages. Sam winces and meets Dean’s eyes from the other side of the table, disbelief written across his face.

“The other?” Monroe asks, glancing up from the Codex. “Nadya’s Codex is scarcely useful without it.”

“This is hundreds of years old. Be careful, man.” Grabbing the book from Monroe’s hands, Henry sets it back on the table and lays a possessive hand over it. “The archives contain references to the other, but no indication it is in the Men of Letters’ possession.”

“Then we’ll take the Codex and be on our way then. I’m sure you have things to talk about with your _associates_ ,” Monroe spits out.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You could try being polite. I thought that was a thing.”

“Same goes for you, Dean,” Henry points out. “Not that it matters. I can’t allow this to leave the Bunker. But I’m sure the boys can make us some coffee while you copy out what you need.” He looks over at Eldon and Eli. “Perhaps find something more… active for the younger ones.”

Dean pulls Sam aside as the Stynes follow Henry into the library, where he presents Monroe with a notepad and pencil. “We need to get them out of here,” he hisses.

“You think they’re a problem?”

“I think Henry is so eager to find other survivors that he’d sell us out to a witch if it got him a location spell that told him where they were.”

“You told Kev to get out of here?”

“Of course. He’ll wait up north for a few hours before moving on.”

Sam shrugs and glances into the library, “We don’t have other options at the moment. They’ll be out of here soon enough.”

“They can’t stay here!”

“We don’t have a _choice_. Unless you want to go in there, guns blazing.”

Dean grumbles and throws up his hands before heading towards the kitchen. Hopefully, someone brought coffee with them, because there’s not enough in his stash to feed this crowd.

* * *

It takes hours of drinking flavorless swill, carefully watching the Stynes copy every page from that mysterious codex, before Sam can finally slam the door behind them.

Henry disappeared hours ago, leaving Sam as the only Winchester capable of acting like a grown up. So he’d drunk shitty coffee and made small talk with Eldon (or Eli? He never did figure out which was which) while Monroe flipped through pages.

Standing in the doorway, he watches them drive off, following the dust cloud west. He slams the door once he can’t see the car anymore and heads back inside. Pulling out his phone, Sam texts Kevin the all clear before he hits the staircase.

Dean’s back in the library, glaring at the debris left behind by a long afternoon of research. Silently, Sam helps him pick up, stacking the mugs and notepads.

“I don’t trust ‘em,” Dean mutters. “They’re too convenient, too smug.”

“We might be stuck with them anyway, unless you have something a lot more solid to go to Henry with.”

Dean shrugs and disappears around the corner.

Sam hides the Codex on one of the shelves in the back corner of the room, behind a stack of encyclopedias and heads back outside to meet Kevin.

Kevin yanks his backpack out of the car as soon as it’s parked, “Red Cloud is a lifeless hellhole full of terrible busybodies.”

“Okay…” Sam drags out. “Everything alright?”

“I’m _eighteen_ , Sam. And I look it! Lady who runs the coffee shop thought I was skipping school, the librarian called the truancy officer!”

“We’ll come up with a better option next time.”

“Yeah, sure.” Kevin glances around the dark landscape. “This place like Hogwarts or something, going to appear out of nowhere? Leap from behind the power station and go ‘boo?’”

“Jesus Christ, we need to get you around people again. It _is_ the power station. C’mon, let’s get you settled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I finished the last chapter of this over the weekend, so now it's just a matter of editing everything. For the time being, updates are going to be every two weeks, however, as my buffer grows, that will speed up. I'll do my best to let every one know when/if things change.
> 
> 2) _PLEASE_ let me know if you think I missed a tag. I probably just overlooked it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware there is a fairly graphic hellhound death below, similar to the first trial in canon.

Between being someplace safe, eating real food, and being bullied into something approaching a regular sleep schedule, Kevin perks up and starts acting like a real boy again. To prove it, within a couple of days, he’s found the spell that will close Hell forever.

Three trials, to prove they’re worthy or serious, and then the gates of Hell are closed and no more demons on Earth. Dean can go back to hunting wendigos and Sam can stop hunting entirely. Finally.

First step: killing a hellhound and bathing in its blood. Sam’s not entirely certain how he feels about it, but if they can’t _find_ a hellhound, then his moral qualms about allowing someone to escape their fate don’t matter.

Assuming they deserve it, of course. They just don’t have a way of knowing from the outside which deals were made for the right reasons, or even if they did, forcing someone else to die by hellhound because their morality says they should? That banker a few years back, that they’d followed to Crowley. Terrible human being, revelling in his ridiculous amounts of money while the people he defrauded lost everything, and Sam still can’t convince himself that he deserves to die by hellhound _or_ be saved.

(That’s a lie. He knows precisely what that banker deserves, which is all the more reason to never allow him power of any kind. Killing monsters is one thing, given that power over humans? No good would ever come of that.)

He winces and turns back to the computer in front of him, digging through years of lottery information and news stories, trying to find a needle in a field of haystacks.

Dean deposits an egg sandwich and coffee at his elbow before doing the same to Kevin across from him. “Any luck?”

Sam sighs and shakes his head. “Not unless you’re into cattle mutilations or ghost ships.”

“From ten years ago? Pass.” Dean drops into his own chair at the other table across from Henry. “How about you, Pops?”

“Do not call me that.” Henry glances up from where he’s slowly learning how to use Dean’s laptop. “I don’t understand how this is faster than calling.”

“When I handed you a phone, you demanded ‘Delta four-five-seven’ or whatever the fuck. You figure out who to call, you get a phone to call with.” Leaning back in his chair, Dean toys with his phone for a moment before jumping to his feet. “I’m gonna go try to get ahold of Garth. See if he’s got anything.”

Cracking his neck, Sam watches Dean bolt for the front door before turning back to the screen in front of him. Calling Garth, right. Or skipping out of boring research the first chance he gets.

Kevin stares out the doorway for a few minutes before turning back to whatever he’s working on. Sam hopes working on the tablet some more, but from the sounds of the clicks, Kevin’s probably screwing around on Facebook or Twitter instead.

Sam checks the news while eating-- nothing terribly exciting besides racists fucks continuing to be racist fucks-- before diving back into the search for someone who made a demon deal ten years ago.

Dean stomps down the stairs about thirty minutes later, frowning heavily.

“Garth got anything?” Sam calls, clicking on yet another possible newspaper story with no real hope.

“Wha-- No.” Dean shakes his head and pockets his phone. “Couldn’t get him to answer the phone. Kev, he say anything to you about going on a long hunt?”

“I’ve not heard from him in weeks. Do you think I was eating ramen and hot dogs for my health?” Kevin snarks.

“Point.” Dean inhales and blows it out. “About the same time as your mom took off?”

Kevin shrugs. “I was neck deep in tablet bullshit and she wouldn’t leave me alone. But then she never contacted me. I told you about this when you picked me up!”

“So we’ve got at least two missing people. That’s great.” Slumping into the chair next to Sam, Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping on it. “Plus finding a hellhound.”

“I think I’ve got the hellhound at least.” Sam glances over the story he has pulled up again before flipping the computer around. “Check this out.”

“This is full-on Beverly Hillbillies,” Dean says after reading the article. “Oil where there’s never been oil before? That’s not even creative.”

“Yeah, but it’s also the only possibility I’m comfortable getting involved in.”

“Greed? That doesn’t seem right.”

“I did a quick check of their finances-- the ranch was about to go under. Hard to fault them for taking the option. We’ve done stupider things.”

“True.” Dean slides the laptop back to Sam and pushes himself to his feet. “Give me twenty and we can get on the road. Kev, you okay staying here by yourself?”

Kevin nods before turning back to his laptop and plugging his headphones in. Okay then.

Sam sighs and closes down his laptop before following Dean out of the room.

* * *

They should have expected this to be another chain of deals with the amount of good luck that Ellie and the local newspaper told them about-- in the span of a week, the Cassity’s struck oil, signed a record deal, found love, and got married to a woman much to young for him-- every possible piece of luck they could have, they did. They’re on a thousand acre ranch with way too many targets to protect all of them.

Even with holy fire scalded reading glasses, the hellhound manages to collect on two of the deals before they manage to narrow the victim pool down at all. He should have noticed how twitchy Ellie was earlier, spooking at random noises. Now the ‘hound is coming for her, and they’re behind the eight-ball _again_ , caught in the horse barn.

Sam watches for the hellhound while Dean hustles Ellie into the storeroom behind them. It’s not much protection, but it’s the best they’re going to get on short notice.

Catching the bag of goofer dust that Dean tosses him, Sam slides the door closed, latching it behind Dean so Dean and Ellie are both trapped inside. “I got this! Take care of Ellie!”

“Dammit, Sam! Let me out!” Dean pounds on the door, but Sam ignores him, nearly spills the goofer dust in his hurry to get the line down in front of the door.

Sam catches sight of the ‘hound through the edge of his glasses. Long thin legs silently gallop down the barn at freakish speed. Before Sam can do more than turn so he’s facing it head on, it’s on him, ramming into him and knocking him flat. A narrow muzzle bites at his throat while the claws on the powerful hind legs rip through his jeans.

Sam gets a hand between them, jamming the grip of his pistol into the ‘hound’s mouth and keeping it at arm’s length. Rolling, he slams the head into the cement before pushing it away.

Scrambling to its feet, it backs off for a moment, shaking its head. The red glow of the ‘hound’s eyes flicker rapidly before steadying and focusing on Sam.

Sam rolls to his feet, pulling the demon killing knife from his jacket pocket and circles to the creature’s left, trying to pull it away from the door blocking it from its target. Line of goofer dust or not, the storeroom is just an unused stall with wooden walls. It might resist a hellhound for a few minutes, but not forever.

The ‘hound cocks its head, watching Sam, turning to keep him in sight. Its growls fill the small area, loud and threatening enough to scare the horses that surround them.

Sam strains to hear any sign that another hound is coming over the screaming horses but gets nowhere-- they’re too quiet and stealthy to be heard in a noisy barn.

“Hey, pup,” he says quietly. “How about you ignore Dean and Ellie? I’m an easier prize.” It really does look like a dog, tall and lanky, bred to run down its prey, without the heavy head and chest that he expected. And _intelligent_ , eyes roaming around and past him.

There’s a soft click behind him, barely audible over the horses. Sam barely glances away but the hound springs in that moment of distraction.

The hound latches onto the arm holding the demon knife, twisting in mid-air and throwing Sam off balance. He spins, falling heavily to the ground. The knife flies out of his hand, landing several feet away.

The monster jumps again, landing on Sam’s chest and rakes its claws through his shirt. Sam bites off the scream that wants to erupt along with the blood. He uses one hand to keep it aways from his throat, arm outstretched with his hand on the breastbone. The other hand flails along the ground, searching for the knife.

The dog lunges forward again, snapping at Sam’s face. Sam rears back as best he can, frantically turning his head to find the knife.

There, his fingers brush the tip of the blade, dragging it forward a precious inch until he can pull it into his hand, scattering straw in a circle until he can reach the handle. Grabbing the knife, he pushes the hound back a bit before plunging the blade between two of its ribs.

The hound spasms a couple times, one last snap of its jaws before finally going still.

Grimacing, Sam blows out a breath before pulling the knife out and using it to slit the hellhound’s chest open, drenching himself in its blood. It’s _disgusting_ , reeking of sulphur and old blood, scalding his bare skin.

Heaving it to the side, he wipes his face with his uninjured arm and looks around.

It’s strangely quiet in the aftermath, despite Dean and Ellie’s pounding on the door, the screaming horses, all of it. The blood pounding in his ears drowns out all of it, leaving an empty silence behind.

“I’m fine, Dean,” he calls before carefully pushing himself to his feet. “Just let me--” he breaks off as he staggers towards the door. “Hold on.”

“Sam?” Dean barks when he falls into the wall with a thud.

It takes a moment to figure out why his left hand doesn’t work right, staring at the blood soaked rag that is his jacket sleeve before enough adrenaline burns off for him to actually feel the pain. He manages to flip the lock and push his shoulder into the door, cracking it open.

Ellie takes it from there, sliding the door the rest of the way open. She gasps when she sees him.

Dean roughly pushes her out of the way, wrapping an arm around Sam’s waist to hold him up. “Jesus, Sam. How much of this is yours?”

“More than it should be.” Sam sags, letting Dean take some more of his weight as he wobbles towards the desk and chair. “C’mon. I need to finish the spell.”

“What the fuck, Sam? You think I’m worried about the fucking trial right now? Jesus.”

“Brutus?” A cultured voice calls in the aisle. “What’s taking so long?”

* * *

Shit. Dean all but drops Sam into the desk chair before running out of the storeroom.

“Squirrel,” Crowley greets him, raising an eyebrow. “I’d say I’m missing a dog, but I suspect you know what happened to him.”

“I told you the next time I saw you, I was going to kill you.” Dean glances around, trying to figure out where Sam dropped the damn knife.

Crowley tsks and shakes his head, “You’ve said that several times, and you’ve not done it yet. You’ve barely even tried.”

Dean leans over to scoop up the demon knife from a nasty pile of straw, pushing the hellhound glasses further up his nose and turning to fully face Crowley. “You’ve barely tried…” he trails off, looking at Crowley head on for the first time.

He’s seen the true faces of demons before, on Earth even, but years of other trauma have piled on top of the memory, burying it. This is not a memory, this is not like anything he’s ever seen on Earth before. Ruby or Lilith’s true forms were visible at times, but had a layer of humanity over it, a borrowed skin twisted over their faces.

Crowley… isn’t. Vaguely humanoid, burnt and cracked skin constantly splits open to reveal rotten green meat, maggots crawling over it all. Bony outgrowths bridge from his shoulders to form a crown over his head. Blood red flames chained to the body turn and follow Dean as he moves.

Dean recoils, pushing the glasses off his head. He’s never doing that again.

Crowley notices his hesitation, there’s no way he doesn’t, but he doesn’t say anything, instead looking around for his missing hellhound. Dean stares for a long moment, trying to conflate the vicious walking wound with the person standing in front of him.

“Brutus?” Crowley whistles before meeting Dean’s gaze. “Winchester, where’s my dog?”

“Dead. We-- Sam-- killed it,” Dean says as cockily as he can manage.

“You _killed_ my _dog_!” Crowley bellows. Between one step and the next, he flickers out and back to the barn, directly in front of Dean, pushing him into the wall.

The shadows in the barn grow deeper, pressing in along with Crowley.

Dean swallows, and pushes himself up to his full height. “It was killing people.”

“Of course it was killing people, that’s what hellhounds do! Did he hurt anyone who wasn’t involved in a deal? No. Did he draw out their deaths? No. You’re _meddling_.”

“Have you met us?” Dean bares his teeth in a grin. “It’s what we do. How’s your little scheme of torturing angels going? Get anywhere with what Alfie gave you?”

Crowley steps back, reaches down to straighten his jacket. “You have no idea the scale of the things on that tablet. You think destroying the leviathan or creating a bomb to blow away demons are the greatest things on those tablets? No.” Carefully, he walks down the aisle, leaning down to touch something before disappearing.

Dean stares after him for a moment before shaking himself and rushing back towards the storage room.

Sam’s still slumped against the desk where Dean had left him, Ellie crouching next to him with a pile of empty gauze wrappers on the ground next to her.

“He needs stitches and a doctor,” she says, as she finishes wrapping another roll of bandage around Sam’s arm.

Dean snorts, moving next to them. “Sam, buddy, you with us?”

Sam’s eyes open wide, jerking upright. “Dean, I gotta finish!”

“What? No. We’ll find another one, I’ll do it. You can’t even stand up right now.”

“And risk us both? No. Dean, no. Just let me do this.” Sam gingerly reaches into jacket pocket and pulls out the spell, flattening it on the desk. The paper is black around the edges, the blood seeping through the fabric and staining it. “You’re the best damn hunter this world has ever seen, let me be the dumbass running into the fire for a change, alright?”

Dean watches as fresh blood wells up along the edge of a cut, before nodding slowly.

“Thank you,” Sam breathes, before inhaling. The spell is short, only four syllables in Enochian, but it nearly sends Sam to the floor, twisting his body into an unnatural rictus as red-white light outlines the veins in his arms. He drops back as soon as the spell releases him, gasping for air.

Ellie is still watching from next to the desk, her hands resting on the edges of the first aid kit. “Is he…?”

“He’ll be fine.” Dean closes his eyes for a long moment before nodding and reaching into his pocket. “I’m going to get our car. You two stay here, there’s a chance Crowley might come back.”

She nods and Dean sprints for the car. His hands are shaking hard enough that he has trouble getting the keys into the ignition. Dropping the keys into the seat beside him, Dean wraps his hands around the steering wheel and squeezes, knuckles going white and leather creaking before his hands relax.

He just has to keep the panic at bay for a little while longer.

Pulling the car around, he gropes in the backseat, finding a half-full bottle of whiskey. Looking at it, his hand makes an aborted motion to spin the cap off into the dark out of sheer habit.

Instead, he mutters a brief not-prayer to Cas and goes back into the barn.

Sam nearly faints when Dean tries to move his left arm. Looking at him, Dean shakes his head and gives up. There’s too many wounds, and too deep, for him to sew up before Sam goes into shock from his arm. Broken bones are some of the only things they never figured out how to effectively deal with on their own.

Ellie glares at him when he toes the first aid kit back closed. “Hospital now?” she asks.

“I-- we-- can’t…” he trails off, trying to come up with something.

Rolling her eyes, she pushes herself to her feet and pull a spare button up shirt off a hook. “Like you two are the first drifters who don’t need police attention in this town. That hellhound, it got rabies?”

“No?” But they should wash out the deeper cuts with holy water-- who knows what lives in a hellhound’s mouth.

“It’s not a gunshot and it’s not rabies. Doc Nunez will take of it. She’s cool with people, but won’t break the law.” She doesn’t wait for his response, carefully tying the shirt into a sling and easing it around Sam’s neck.

Dean nods and moves to help. Having something to do helps ease the trembling he can still feel, even if it doesn’t show.

Ellie runs ahead to open the car door while he helps Sam limp out. He can feel the warm seep of blood through the bandages under his hand at Sam’s waist, bleeding through.

He tries not to think about it. Doesn’t need the images of Jo bleeding out on the floor of a dusty hardware store, the tearing of his own flesh under teeth and claws. He shudders, carefully laying Sam in the backseat.

Sam moans, pushes himself further into the car under his own power, “Dean, I think I need a doctor,” he says weakly.

“Working on it.”

Nunez works out of a couple of old cargo containers, welded together into an office, next to a rundown house at the intersection of a few different farm roads. The house looks shabby even in the dark, but the bright yellow container next to it pulls all the attention anyway.

The floodlights in the yard show a gravel parking pad between the house and office with an older woman bundled up in a sweatshirt and jeans.

She completely ignores Dean when he climbs out of the car, going straight to the back door and yanking it open. “Oof. He’s a big one. Ellie, help me get him out,” she snaps, tucking her braid into the neck of her sweatshirt. “You, get the door open.”

Dean meekly follows instructions, helping them get Sam inside and settled. He pauses for a moment when she pulls out the bag of saline to run a line.

“Sam doesn’t always deal well with needles.”

“Then he shouldn’t have gotten tangled up with a dog like this,” Nunez says shortly, but she lets Dean hold Sam down when she sticks the needle in and tapes it down. “He’s not lost a lot of blood, but he’s shocky and unconscious. Gotta do something about that.”

Dean takes the scissors out of her hand before she can cut off Sam’s shirt. He can’t… It’s too much like Jo. “I gotta--”

“Whatever, just do it quick and careful-like.” He can feel her glare on his back as he cuts up the centerline of the shirts and then the sleeves, peeling them back around the bite and claw marks.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “This wasn’t a dog. Or a wolf.” She reaches up, touches Sam’s anti-possession tattoo carefully. “You hunters?”

Somehow, Dean’s sure she doesn’t mean deer or elk. “Yeah. Hellhound. Keeping it away from Ellie.”

“Dammit, girl, I knew your mama got better too quick.” Nunez looks up at Dean and nods. “Better make some holy water, kid, we’re going to have a long night.”

Sam regains consciousness around two am, after they’ve already been working on him for a couple hours. They’ve taken care of the worst of it, gotten most of the puncture wounds cleaned out-- turns out hellhounds carry all sorts of nasties in their mouths, watching the holy water boil out sulphur yellow nearly made Dean puke-- and sutured shut, and they’re yanking his arm back into alignment when Sam yells himself awake.

Dean’s on his feet immediately, pushing Sam back against the exam table with an arm across his shoulders. “Sam, relax. I got you.”

Nunez uses his distraction to finish resetting Sam’s arm.

Sam lets out a hoarse bellow, jerking forward against Dean’s hold before relaxing. “Dean?”

Ellie snorts and hands Nunez the splint to hold Sam’s arm in place. “Dean’s here, Sam’s awake, now can we please focus on the Doc and the medical shit she’s doing?”

“Oh. Right.”

They can’t apply a cast to Sam’s arm-- the bite marks need to be able to breathe and there’s a very real fear of infection-- but Doc Nunez has clearly dealt with this sort of thing before. Wrapping a hard plastic brace around Sam’s arm, she covers it in Ace bandages. “Keep it still, don’t be a dumb ass, and for fuck’s sake, see a doctor when you get back to your home base for a real cast.”

Stepping away from the table, she jerks her head at Dean and drags him towards the desk at the front of the container. “Your brother is gonna be fine, but we need to discuss payment.”

Dean holds back the grimace that wants to cross his face and nods, reaching for his wallet. “I’ve got about five hundred in cash and--”

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be taking your cash, but not all of it. The balance…” She looks out the windows that have been cut into the steel of the container, facing the house. “I have a friend up north, up by Coeur d’Alene. They’re fine, but there’s been some disappearances up that way and they’re starting to get worried.”

“Our sort of thing?” Dean asks sharply.

“I think so,” Nunez grimaces. “Sam shouldn’t be moved much. There’s too much risk of him shifting his wrist, those wounds getting infected.”

“Okay…” Dean draws out.

“Leave him here. Go check out Mac’s thing. You take care of that, and we’ll call it even.”

Dean sighs and pulls a couple hundred bucks and lays it on the counter. “Give me a few hours to get some sleep.”

She nods, busying herself with the coffee pot before turning away.

Which leaves Dean to try to find some back up for this. He’s not entirely sure who will be willing-- there’s a reason he and Sam mostly hunt either with each other or alone-- but he’s gotta try. He can hunt alone, did it for years, but right now… he’s so used to having Sam or Benny at his back that this could go upside down real quick. Pulling out his phone, he leans against the wall and makes a point of not watching where Nunez disappears the cash to.

Thumbing through his contact list, Dean tries not to think too hard about how so many of them are dead. The apocalypse and apocalypse redux took their tolls, plus all the ‘usual’ hunts-go-bad and… yeah. His heart stutters on Bobby’s number, and Benny’s, thumbs right on past Cas, and pauses on Charlie.

He’s not sure how much he trusts her in combat yet-- LARP combat is bullshit-- but she could use the practice if she wants to hunt, even part time.

Dean’s not quite sure what time it is in Michigan, but he’s fairly certain that it’s far too early for his text to get an instantaneous _cheerful_ phone call.

“Hey, Charlie, what’s shakin’?”

“You tell me. You’re not a texter, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head and steps outside. “How serious are you about hunting?”

“It’s four fucking thirty in the fucking morning and that’s why you texted? I thought you’d made progress on the Castiel front or something.”

Dean blinks stupidly at his phone for a couple of seconds before shaking his head. “What? No. Sammy’s hurt and I’ve got a hunt.”

“Is Sam okay or…” Charlie trails off.

“Stitches and a cast. But it just happened last night, so he’s doped up on the good meds. Can you help me out or do I need to find someone else?”

“You don’t have to be a dick. Yeah, I’m in.” There’s a rustling noise on the other end of the phone and some typing, a soft thunk, like she set her phone down. Sure enough, after a couple minutes of typing, she sounds like she’s in a tunnel. “Alright. Ugh, where am I going?”

They spend a few minutes working things out-- her flight into Boise arrives early afternoon and he’ll pick her up before heading north-- before she hurriedly gets off the phone.

The cold outside is almost a relief after the too-warm humid heat of the clinic. Dean leans against the Impala for a few minutes, letting the cold steel absorb some of his anxiety, before pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Cas’s phone goes directly to voicemail. Dean holds in the sigh that wants to escape before the beep. “Hey, man. Just checking in, guess you’re still busy with Heaven stuff or whatever. Don’t--” he closes his eyes and hunches into his jacket more. “Don’t worry about us. We’ve got things under control.” Dean hastily hits the end call button as Ellie emerges from the clinic, heading across the yard towards the house.

Calling out for her to wait, Dean pops the trunk, and digs through some of the spare hex bags they keep on hand. Tossing it to her, he says, “Keep this on you at all times. Hopefully, hellhounds won’t be a problem for much longer, but I don’t know how long it will take.”

She nods tiredly, shoving it in a pocket, “You and Doc figure something out?”

“Yeah. I’ll roll back through to pick up Sam in a couple days.”

They stare awkwardly at each other for a few minutes before she shakes her head and turns back to the house. Dean watches her go before heading back inside the clinic. He’s got a few hours to kill before he needs to head out, better watch over Sam during that time, let Nunez get some sleep.

* * *

She has never been a sound sleeper, half awake throughout the centuries, dreaming through the changes in Hell. The aftershocks are still rumbling, waking her fully, knocking the shallowest ice away from her head. It had been thinning regardless, too many shocks to the firmament to keep her safely contained when Heaven can’t even keep Lucifer contained.

Flexing, more ice splinters away, allows her to breathe freely for the first time in centuries. She’s still trapped, but this… this gives her something she can work with.

The first demon that comes near is scarcely worth the name. Barely off the rack, impossibly young, not remotely sane, it does not deserve her attentions. She coaxes it closer, spinning out tales that an older demon would know better than to believe.

It dies quick, hot blood splashing down to melt the ice further, quenching her thirst. Too young to know anything, its death serves only to bring her closer to escape.

Briefly, she wonders what Lilith is doing, or Alastair, to allow demons so young to wander from the pit. Settling back into her prison, she waits-- for another demon, for freedom, for another quake.


	4. Chapter 4

Doc Nunez’s friend, Mac, lives north of Coeur d’Alene, in one of the tiny towns that line the highway along the National Forest. There’s almost nothing to it-- not quite seven hundred people, a bar, and a couple schools-- but driving down the main drag, Dean’s astonished by how much life is left here. Most of these towns are dying, but this one… isn’t.

Hell, judging by the construction at the north end of town, it’s _growing_.

“Isn’t this kinda… lively… for a town this size in February?” Charlie asks. “During hunting season, or the summer, sure. There’s plenty of things to do here, but…”

Dean shrugs, slowly driving past the nearly full parking lot of the diner, searching for the veterinary hospital. “It wouldn’t be the first time that a town survives against the odds.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a town was abusing pagan gods to do it either,” she says darkly.

“Abusing pagan gods…” Dean trails off. “What?”

“That thing with the scarecrow. In Indiana, like seven years ago?”

“Scarecrow in Indiana… the _dryad_?” Dean whips his head around. “You read the books?”

“And the fanfiction-- well, some of it,” Charlie adds smugly. “Anyway, pretty sure that was a god, Dean. Or vanir, whatever the difference is.”

Dean resists the urge to bang his head on the steering wheel, but only because he’s still driving. “Yeah, that was a dryad. A crazy one, completely off her rocker because of all the blood, but it was a dryad. No idea why Chuck called it a god.”

Charlie frowns, tapping a finger on tablet on the seat between them. “What else did he lie about?”

The idea of going down the list makes Dean shudder. “A lot.” If he thinks about it too long, or too hard, he’s going to end up on a week long bender. “And that’s a three beer minimum conversation. Get me drunk later.”

She nods sharply before pointing up ahead. “There’s the vet clinic.”

Mac is standing outside on the far side of the building, smoking in the lee of the wind. Heavy-set and hiding any hint of a personality behind a set of coveralls, they lift their hand in greeting as Dean parks the car, putting the cigarette out on the sole of their boot. “Howdy, what can I help you with?”

Before Dean can get a word out, Charlie has already taken over. “Howdy! We’re looking for Mac? Doc Nunez from… uh…” Turning to Dean, she looks utterly blank.

“Shoshone,” Dean interjects dryly.

Mac levers away from the building and whistles sharply before extending their hand. “Harper MacKenzie. Call me Mac, please.”

“Sure thing. Dean Winchester and Charlie Bradbury,” Dean introduces them, bracing for the dogs that are sure to follow that whistle. He still inhales sharply when the dogs barrel around the corner towards them, trying to keep the sudden spike of fear off his face.

Charlie might notice, if she’s paying attention, but he’s pretty sure Mac won’t have.

“Once these two are ready to behave, we can head on inside. They were getting restless this afternoon.”

The big dog-- huge and fluffy, big enough to set its paws on Sam’s shoulders-- flops between them, rolling over onto its back to expose its belly. Mac and Charlie drop down to scratch it while the little one-- not even knee high on Dean-- runs around them in circles, barking its head off.

Mac lets it go on for a bit before pushing themself back to their feet. “ _Alright_ , Stimpy. Enough already!” The big one rolls back over and gives its entire body a shake before climbing to its feet. It lets out a single low ‘boof’ before padding over to the door and waiting patiently. “Yeah, Ren. You too.”

Dean feels his heartbeat pick up speed, but pushes it aside. This isn’t the time, he can feel things about this later. Much later. When he’s safe in his room at the Bunker, behind all sorts of warding.

Mac and the dogs lead them past the waiting area-- empty-- and into their office at the far end of the building. The office is cluttered, every flat surface covered in paperwork and three different coffee cups balanced on top of the piles. The only clear areas are the dog bed-- where Ren and Stimpy immediately curl up-- and the broken down office chair on the working side of the desk. Even the visitor’s chair has a pile of paperwork on it.

Mac smiles sheepishly when they notice Dean looking around. “It’s lambing season. And some early calves. Organization is falling by the wayside.”

Dean holds up his hands. “Not saying a word. Cows are important-- they give us cheeseburgers.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and carefully shifts the paperwork out of the extra chair in the office so she can take a seat. “Doc Nunez said you had some folks go missing around town?”

Mac waggles a hand in a see-saw motion. “Kinda. Missing, yes. Townies… not so much.” They haul out a worn and hand annotated map and spreads it across the desk. Tapping their finger on a small farm a few miles away, they continue, “I try to check out all my farms at least once before the lambing and calving start, see if I can spot any problems before they become life threatening, that sort of thing. Generally saves me at least one emergency call a year, which is worth it.” They sigh, grasping at one of the old cups of coffee and downing it with a shudder. “The Zubios are-- were-- good folks. Standoffish, but took good care of their animals and were always helping out around town.”

“But?” Dean asks.

“But when I stopped in a few weeks back, there was no one there.”

“No one like they were all in town for the day or…”

“Like someone picked up the whole herd, and the Zubios with ‘em, and moved the entire operation.”

“What about the buildings?” Charlie asks.

“Nothing. Looked like they’d been empty for a few weeks, but no reason why I could see. I tried to get the local cops to look into it, but they didn’t do anything.” Mac shrugs. “I’ve been here for five years and I’m still an outsider. No idea what you two can do, but Doc is good at sending help when I need it.”

Dean grimaces but nods. Pushing himself away from the bookcase where he’s been leaning, he tries very hard to ignore how Ren lifts her head to watch. “We’ll take a look, see what we can find.”

Mac nods and sees them out.

* * *

He knows he’s dreaming, and that he’s had this dream before. It doesn’t change how it happens.

> _The body-warm blood scalds as it smears across his face, dripping to the floor from his still wet hands. He’s sitting cross-legged by the dead demon when Jess-Amelia comes in, sticking his fingers into the stab wounds only to suck the blood off. The iron bursts sweet across his tongue, sulfur a bitter afterthought._
> 
> _Amelia-Jess stands in the doorway, her long white dress soaking up the blood. She doesn’t say anything, just watches as he gets his fix, addiction finally sated. Lolling his head back, Sam watches the blood crawl upwards to her knees before he blinks._
> 
> _It’s a flick of his hand to pin her to the wall, drag her to the ceiling. He doesn’t take the final step though, not yet. Alive and screaming, pinned like a bug. Civilians die. The women he loves die. It’s the fate of everyone and everything he touches. But not yet._
> 
> _Sulfur burns his eyes, turning them black. The blood is black too, in the flames._
> 
> _He can’t hear Amelia’s screams over the sound of Martin’s heartbeat, struggling against the fist gripping it tight._

Sam is still yelling when he wakes up, flailing an arm out. It bangs against the table, pain spiking like a hot poker through his arm, bringing him the rest of the way into consciousness. He clenches his teeth, trying to silence himself.

Too late. The door opens, a woman a few years older than him still tying her robe as she flips on the light.

Racking his brain, Sam cannot come up with a name for her, or why he’s in her house. “Uh… hi.” His arm, helpfully, starts throbbing in counterpoint to his heartbeat.

“Nice to see you awake.” She bustles over, ignoring his arm-- held tight against his chest-- in favor of checking the other bandages that he’s been ignoring. “Now, you gonna let me take a look at that wing of yours?”

It takes a moment for him to slowly extend it, resting it on the bed between them. She doesn’t touch it, but runs a careful finger along the heavy plastic framework it’s strapped into. “Good. Wiggle your fingers, just a bit.”

It _hurts_ , but Sam bites down on the pain and does what she asks. After a few twitches, she nods and pats his shoulder. “You’re doing just fine, Sam.”

“Great. Where am I?” he asks. “Who are you?”

“How much of last night do you remember?” she responds, busying herself with something on the far side of the bed.

It’s not a bad room, tiny, filled with worn furniture and generic art prints on the walls. Shaking his head, he tries to focus. “Uh. Ellie got attacked by a dog. Some… other stuff... happened and then I guess I blacked out? Where’s Dean?”

“Right.” She nods decisively. “Damn fool girl brought you to me-- Doc Nunez. If he knows what’s good for him, Dean’s sacked out for a few hours of racktime. But he doesn’t seem like the type.”

“I’m surprised he’s not in here, tearing up the place.”

She snorts, pushing away from the bed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Take the painkillers and I’ll bring back coffee.”

Sam eyes the pills she hands him, but they look like run of the mill Tylenol-3. Swallowing them dry, he grimaces at the bitter taste.

Nunez bustles back in with two cups of coffee. Passing him one, she settles in the wooden chair at the foot of the bed. “Right, you seemed a bit fuzzy on the details, so let’s go over them. We can figure out what to do with you after that.”

By the time she’s done filling in the blanks, it’s past opening time for the clinic. Doc hurries out of the room, cursing up a storm as she sheds her robe and pulls on her day clothes. A pair of cars have already pulled into the parking lot he can see out the window, disgorging two exhausted looking men and a woman who immediately head into the clinic like they own the place.

Sam limps from the guest room into the main room of the house to find his bags. They’re right where Dean would have left them, next to the couch with his backpack on top. If Doc or Ellie went through them, they didn’t get very far.

He can’t do much-- if Doc has wi-fi, he doesn’t know the password and it seems rude to hack it just because he can-- but he can wash the worst of the blood and dust off and then read a book or something. He’s stuck here for at least a couple days apparently.

_< < Alive and awake. What’s going on up there?_

It takes a few moments for Dean to respond, and when he does, it’s far more fluid than Dean’s normal hunt and peck on his phone.

_> > Hi Sam! We’re not sure yet. Ever heard of anything that just… disappears? Here one day, gone the next, and all their cows with them?_

_> >It’s Charlie, btw. Dean’s driving_

_> >Dean says I should tell you to put down the book and be careful with your arm._

Sam glares at his phone, hoping it somehow transmits the glare to Dean.

_< < Nothing off the top of my head. Dean has Dad’s journal, that’d have a better idea._

When there’s no immediate response, Sam finds the bathroom. Gingerly stripping off his shirts, he realizes just how good that painkiller is. He remembers the fight with the hellhound-- vaguely, if not in detail-- but despite the lingering pain, he’s utterly unprepared. Almost his entire torso is swathed in white bandages, spots of red where he’s bled through, with shallow cuts and bruises peeking out from the edges.

Even staring at them makes them sting, so he leaves the bandages alone and simply wipes down with a ratty washcloth he keeps in his bag. He feels nominally more human after and in a lot more pain.

Pain is good, pain is a warning, but Jesus Tapdancing Christ it should not hurt this much to haphazardly wipe off dirt and grime.

Sucking in a deep breath when he jostles his arm, he curls back up on the guest room bed and reads until he falls back asleep.

* * *

Leaving Mac’s office, Dean and Charlie wander down the street to get the scope of town. The diner is full of construction workers-- sounds like a new church is moving to town, and possibly a parish school-- and what seems like half of main street getting their gossip on. Nothing about the Zubios though, or why anyone would up and leave.

The motel, if he can call it that, in Athol is four rooms and the office, run part time by the mechanic across the street. He doesn’t know anything about where the Zubios would have disappeared either when Dean asks.

There’s something though that scratches at the back of Dean’s mind as they drive out to the farm. So far, this all seems like small town politics, a vet not wanting to admit that a source of income is gone, gossip gone missing. But there is something deeply unsettling about the idea that all of them are just… gone.

Athol is small-- someone would have seen _something_ if there was a natural explanation. But then, what had Mac said? They’d been here for five years and was an outsider-- there’s no way anyone’s going to tell him and Charlie anything unless they can find a reason for the FBI to investigate.

Driving out to the Zubio farm, Dean winces as gravel pings off the undercarriage and the Impala nearly gets stuck in the mud for the third time. Between the frost heave throwing up all the gravel and the early spring thaw and mud, it’s clear no one’s done much in the way of maintenance out here in months.

Charlie glances up when he swears, holding up his phone. “Sam’s never heard of anything like this either, but says we should check your dad’s journal, just in case.”

Dean nods, concentrating on the road. “Didn’t think he would have. Not if I haven’t.”

Charlie shrugs and tucks the phone back under his thigh. “It was worth asking. Brains are weird.”

The house and barn look… not abandoned, but like no one’s been home in several weeks. Nothing out of place, but cold and unused-- no tracks through the mud, snow piled up in the shaded areas of the yard.

Dean keeps watch while Charlie practices picking locks on the back door. The inside is the same-- clean, but livably so. Like someone cleaned house before going on vacation. They take their time going through it all, searching for anything that could possibly explain what happened.

There’s just… nothing there. Dean searches all the bedrooms, the living room, everything, but there’s nothing to explain why the family left. There’s all sorts of indications that whoever lived here wasn’t necessarily human, but that’s pretty damn close to meaningless. Lots of things aren’t human, and he’s not enough of a jackass to walk away just because of that. Not when they’ve never hurt anyone near as he can see.

Charlie comes out of one of the bedrooms holding a comb. “This is the only thing I can find that doesn’t belong.” Opening her hand, she displays the ivory teeth, several of which have been snapped off. “And even this… it’s a broken comb, not evidence that they’re dead or whatever.”

Dean shakes his head and follows her.

Sighing, he collapses into one of the kitchen chairs across from Charlie. “I brought you out here for nothing.”

Shrugging, she doodles something in the dust before looking up at him. “Does this sort of thing happen often? Just folks disappearing mysteriously with no explanation?”

“Eh. Sometimes. Most of the time, we don’t get called in if that’s the case though. If this hadn’t been passed on to us, I don’t know that we ever would have caught it.”

Frowning, she looks around the kitchen one more time before pushing away from the table. “Well, we’re here. So let’s get back to the motel and see if I can do my thing and figure out where they went.”

“First round’s on me,” Dean agrees. They lock the door behind them as they leave, just in case someone comes back.

They’re about halfway back to town, passing the nearest neighbors’ driveway when a young man in a truck waves them down.

Slowing, Dean motions for Charlie to roll down the window.

“You all Mac’s out-of-towners?”

Frowning, Dean forces himself to nod. “Yeah, helping out with some things.”

“Good. You can scare off the new church, then the Zubios will come back. I’m gonna need their help come spring.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Charlie breaks in.

The young man shakes his head, “Amona will be able to explain it better. Just… follow me. Unless you need to head back to town?”

Dean meets Charlie’s eyes and raises an eyebrow. She shakes her head slightly, murmuring, “Short of hacking their bank accounts, I’ve got nothing on deck.”

Shrugging, Dean agrees and waves at the guy to lead on. “Any ideas?”

“Not a one.”

Dean parks the Impala alongside the truck, subtly adjusting his gun once he’s out of the car. This feels… suspicious. Or ominous. Or both. No one is this helpful when it comes to a hunt, especially in this town.

The young man waves, awkwardly, once they come around the car, “I’m, uh, Toby. This is Amona’s land, I’m just here helping out this spring.”

The house looks like its about the same age as the Zubio house, roughly a hundred years old and modernized over the years. Dean can see the tip of a satellite dish on the back corner of the house, a modern-looking tractor in the barn behind it.

Toby keeps sneaking glances at them as he leads them around to the back door. Dean brushes it off at first-- he’s clearly not threatening them, so why worry about it-- but watching Toby blush and look away quickly becomes entertaining in its own right.

Pausing at the bottom of the porch stairs, Dean smirks and elbows Charlie, whispering, “Someone’s got a crush.”

She snorts and grins, “Eh, not really my type. You though...” She rocks her head left to right, “Maybe.”

“Sure, your highness.” Dean pushes her up the stairs, steadfastly ignoring anything she might be implying. Now’s not the time.

Stepping into the kitchen is like stepping into another world. The exterior of the house, and even the rooms Dean can see beyond the kitchen, are bright and cheerful, a riot of color to protest the grey outside.

The kitchen… isn’t. Dark wood paneling covers the walls, broken up by ancient off-white appliances, a cracked and yellowed window shade over the window. Dean looks around, cataloging the copper molds hanging on the wall and hand-painted flowers on the sides of the cabinets bracketing the sink.

The woman at the table is _ancient_ , ninety if she’s a day, wrapped in a woolen shawl against the chill and wielding a paring knife on some potatoes. She barely glances up when Toby opens the door in the kitchen, sharply gesturing with her knife. “You two, sit down. Toby, find yourself something useful to do.”

“Of course, Amona.” He bends down to kiss her cheek before stepping back outside.

She watches him go fondly before turning back to Dean and Charlie. Setting down the knife, she looks them up and down intently before asking, “What tipped you off? The bridge?”

Scrambling for a response, Dean stares at her, dumbfounded, for a moment before shaking himself. “Nothing. I owed a favor to a friend of Mac’s.”

“Bridge?” Charlie asks next to him. “Is there a problem with one?”

“I told that busybody to not worry about it. Damnit.” Pushing herself to her feet, she waddles over to the coffee pot on the counter and pulls down two more mugs. In the slightly brighter gloom by the window, she looks younger, enough that Dean can tell she was-- is-- very beautiful. “Well, if he’s brought you in, then I might as well explain, so you can get out of here.”

“Ma’am?” Charlie asks, accepting the cup of coffee pushed towards her.

“Gods, no. Not ma'am, even now.” She wrinkles her nose. “Katerina, please. Or Mrs. Delouart if you’re formal.”

“Toby said you knew what happened with the Zubios?” Dean asks, leaving his coffee untouched.

“Sure, they left.” She turns to look out the window. “Folks do that sometimes. Just pick up sticks and move.”

“But that’s not what happened here,” Charlie says flatly.

Katerina picks up her paring knife and potato, resumes peeling. “Our families moved here at the same time, intermarried, mined silver, raised sheep, then cattle. Over eighty years, we’ve spent in this county. And then, last fall, everything goes to hell.” She shudders through a deep breath. “Lamiak are prey, did you know that, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean blinks rapidly. “How did you--”

“Your car isn’t very subtle, young man.” She roughly cuts a bad spot out of a potato, angrily flinging it into the bowl of peels next to her. “We’re not human enough for the predators to bother with most of the time-- although the more squeeze you put on them, the more danger we’re in-- but some things just want to drive us out or kill us. That terrible new church for one. Damaging our bridge, claiming the land on either side of it.” She shudders, shrugging deeper into her shawl.

“Us?” Dean asks, intelligently.

She rolls her eyes, flipping her braid back over her shoulder. The longer they sit here, the more light there is, shining off that braid, reflecting off the copper. Now that he’s paying attention, Dean can spot the abnormalities in their host.

“Yes, us. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

Charlie lays a hand on his arm before he can respond. “Why don’t you go help Toby while Ms. Delouart and I have a chat?”

Dean frowns, but nods, pushing away from the table. He’s not really comfortable leaving Charlie in here by herself, but Katerina doesn’t really seem like much of a threat.

Grabbing his coffee cup, he walks out to the back porch and stares out at the farm yard. The gray sky melts into the gray-brown fields on the horizon, surrounding him with late winter. He can hear Toby beating on something in the garage. Leaning against the porch rail, Dean plays with his phone. He shoots a text to Sam, checking in, before pulling up the last text conversation with Cas. It hadn’t been anything special, just confirming where Dean was before Cas flew into town but… but it’s the last tangible contact he’s had with his best friend in nearly a month.

He flips the screen off, shoves the phone back in his pocket and marches through the muck back to the Impala. Dwelling on it isn’t going get him anywhere, might as well get some research in now that they’ve got a name.

Pulling Dad and Bobby’s journals from the trunk, Dean sinks into the backseat, flipping through for some clue about what’s happening with this town. Dad’s journal has nothing-- not that he really expected that it would-- but Bobby’s has something. “Lamiak, Basque-- siren types, duck feet. Rufus says generally helpful, will leave town rather than risk confrontation. Also if churches start being built.”

He can’t say that it’s the same creature, but it does seem pretty similar and it fits with the new church in town. The Zubios left town before they got here though, so the confrontation isn’t with him and Charlie. And Katerina was pretty quiet about it too…

He’s still turning the possibilities over in his head when he hears the growling.

Sitting up slowly, he watches paw prints as big as his hand appear in the mud. Invisible. Dropping a hand down, he grabs for the shotgun shoved under the front seat, watching as the prints slowly circle the car.

The demon killing knife is hours away, in Shoshone with Sam, because past-Dean is a fucking _moron_ who thought that Crowley would seek his revenge on _Sam_. Because Crowley has ever given a shit about Sam beyond the leverage he provides over Dean.

Dean sucks in a breath as the hellhound knocks into the Impala, rocking it. He has no idea where the glasses are-- probably somewhere useful, like the trunk-- so this entire thing is going to be blind luck.

Popping the door open, Dean rolls out, aims for the growling, and empties both barrels of the shotgun into where he thinks the hellhound is. It hits, black blood pouring out of the empty air and into the mud, but not enough.

Dean is flat on his back in the space of a blink, dropping his gun as he falls, struggling to keep the thing from his throat. He gets a good grip on one paw, keeps it off balance as they struggle. The hound still has its back paws free though, rabbit kicking and trying to disembowel him.

“Dean!” Charlie screams from the porch.

Instinctively, Dean rolls towards her, pulling the hound with him, pushing it up so she has a clear shot.

There’s a wet, meaty _thwack_ , and blood splashes down. He rolls them again, pushing the things rear legs apart so they bracket him. Reaching down, Dean scrabbles at his pants leg, trying to pull his boot knife.

Before he can grab it, the hellhound beneath him melts away, dropping him face down in the mud.

Dean flips himself over and scrambles to his knees, watching the mud around him for more pawprints.

Toby comes charging out of the barn, rifle in hand, looking around wildly. Dean’s first instinct is to tell him to get back to the garage, but there doesn’t seem to be much point. No matter how he looks, there doesn’t seem to be any indication that the hellhound is still around.

Breathing slowly, Dean pushes himself to his feet, looking around for anything that doesn’t seem right. There’s nothing. Dean’s hand trembles as he pulls the leg of his jeans back into place over his boot. Shoving it deep into his pocket, where no one can see how bad it is, he turns towards Charlie and Katerina on the porch. “We-- I-- need to go. Or there’ll be more of them.”

Toby starts to sputter out questions, but shuts up at a look from Katerina, subsiding with a near silent, “Yes, Amona.”

“Just a sec, Dean,” Charlie calls, ducking back inside before rushing to the car. She has a sheet of paper clutched in her hand, but doesn’t say anything about it when she climbs in. Dean doesn’t know how to ask about it right now, not without being a complete asshole.

He forces himself to breathe deeply and evenly on the drive back to town, splitting his attention between driving and breathing and nothing else. He’s certain Charlie is talking, chattering about something, but he can’t hear her over the blood rushing in his ears.

Pulling into the motel parking lot, Dean stares at the door in front of him, unable to let go of the steering wheel. If he lets go, he’s going to shake apart, going to get Charlie hurt like he got Sam hurt, fail them, failed Cas, fail…

Charlie snaps her fingers in front of him, boops him on the nose. “Dean, c’mon buddy. Let’s at least get out of the car.” She pries his fingers away from the wheel, carefully pulls him out of the car, and walks them both to the room.

The entire time, Dean is aware enough to help, but he can’t seem to do anything voluntarily, just wraps an arm around Charlie’s shoulders and stiffly moves with her into the room.

He loses time after that, in a way he hasn’t done in years. By the time he comes back to himself, the shower is running cold and his skin is pruney. Shivering, Dean flips the shower off and falls backwards against the slope of the tub from his huddle, stretching his legs out. He still feels fuzzy, like he’s not slept in days, but that’s better than before.

Charlie has her laptop hooked into the TV when he emerges, something brightly colored and animated on screen. She glances up from her tablet, pauses her show before patting the bed next to her. “Good, you didn’t drown. I was starting to worry.”

Dean smiles faintly, bypassing the bed so he can--

The salt line has already been laid, double layered with goofer dust between. Looking around the room, every precaution he was going to do is done.

“I called Sam while you were showering. He walked me through it,” Charlie offers, like she isn’t his fucking savior right now.

“Oh.” Dean collapses on the bed next to her, turning his attention to the TV. On screen, an archer sends arrows made of light or something towards the dragon while his friends run away. “What are we watching?”

“You do not get to make fun of me for this,” she says sharply, bringing a hand up to pet his hair. “The old Dungeons and Dragons cartoon from the 80’s.”

Dean frowns, but doesn’t say anything, just relaxes into the bed. He tries to keep his eyes open, but it’s been a very long day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that graphic violence tag? We're earning it again. Also demons vs demons and non-graphic torture.

Dinner is a generic casserole Doc brings in and splits into tupperware before handing two thirds to the vet techs that follow her in. The techs stare at him curiously, but stay silent while Doc divides things and then they disappear out the back door.

“Sorry about that,” Doc says. “Joe paid in kind again, and there’s more there than any one of us can eat. Wasn’t expectin’ you to be out of bed.”

Sam shakes his head, tapping his phone again to see if there are any new messages from Charlie. “What? I don’t care about eating late. I just… Waiting for the all clear on Dean’s hunt.”

She raises an eyebrow before moving around the table. “Wouldn’t have thought he could get himself in trouble that fast.”

“Dean could start a fight in an empty house. And you sent him out there expecting trouble of one sort or another.” Pushing himself painfully to his feet, Sam moves to the counter and pulls down a couple plates.

They end up discussing hunting over dinner. She’s pretty well versed in the absolute basics-- ghosts and werewolves with a smattering of others-- and well aware of where her limits lie.

“Word gets out that you’ll patch up humans, no questions asked? You start seeing a lot weirder things than migrants with broken bones.” Doc shrugs. “Had a guy pass through, a few years back, four times in the space of a year. The first time, looked like he’d been thrown from something, I didn’t think anything of it, happens all the time around here. The claws that nearly crippled him, the silver spike that came within a hair's breadth of costing him his arm? Those raised questions that needed real answers.”

“So you browbeat him into the truth?”

“Held his precious spike and machete hostage until he gave me _something_. At that point, I didn’t even care if it was the truth as long as it wasn’t tripping and falling again.”

“For _claw marks_?”

Doc raises an eyebrow skeptically. “He’s a good kid, and operating without a partner. Believability wasn’t high on his list of priorities.”

“Obviously.” Sam thinks for a moment. “Tall, lanky guy? Kinda looks like a puppet?”

Doc nods.

“Yeah, Garth needs a partner.” He holds up a hand to forestall any argument. “He’s competent, good even, but accident prone. One of these days, he’s gonna get himself killed on accident.”

“As opposed to the other ways of getting yourself killed?”

“Hunting…” Sam sighs. “Suicide by monster isn’t uncommon.”

They lapse back into silence before Sam shakes himself. Taking a deep breath, he launches into rugarous and how to deal with them. It’s a pretty blatant attempt at changing the subject, but Doc lets him get away with it for the rest of the meal.

After dinner, she checks him over and gives him the wi-fi password before disappearing into the back of the house. Sam hunts and pecks his way through an update for Kevin and some research that he’s haphazardly been working on just to kill time.

He’s halfway convinced himself that stealing a car with a broken wrist won’t suck _that_ much when his phone buzzes across the couch cushion.

Sam doesn’t bother checking the display, demanding, “What?”

“Jeez, Sam, relax.”

“Charlie,” he breathes, some of the tension releasing from his shoulders. “Everything okay?”

Sighing, she says quietly, “Sort-of? I mean, we’re in one piece and everything. Which is pretty good if you think about it.”

Sam stays silent, waiting for her to get to the point.

“He’s sacked out right now. It’s not a big deal-- this isn’t our sort of thing.”

“You sound pretty certain.” Glancing at the clock on his laptop, Sam nods. “It’s not that late.”

“Nah, but there’s only one bar. I’d rather go check out this bridge, but…”

“But Dean’s down for the count.”

“And I don’t want to die.”

Sam sighs, awkwardly navigating his browser to pull up a map. There’s no way he can be there before morning, even if he leaves right now. “You need to stay behind those wards anyway. At least until we figure out why you suddenly have a hellhound after you.”

“You did just kill the king’s dog, Sam,” Charlie says dryly. “I can’t imagine why he might have issues with that.”

“But _I_ killed it, not Dean. It makes no sense Crowley would send it after you.” Sam shakes his head. “Hell, for all we know, it was running wild and just took a chance. Pretty sure Crowley doesn’t have as firm of a grip on Hell as he’d like us to believe.”

“Who the fuck knows,” Charlie grunts before focusing. “Anyway, not why I was calling. I’ve thumbed through your dad’s journal, and Bobby’s, and they didn’t really have much on the Lamiak. Any chance you’d be willing to help a girl out? Might as well fill out some details while we’re thinking about them.”

It’s a welcome distraction for both of them. There’s not a whole lot of lore available, and what they find matches what Charlie was told earlier. Eventually, they end up doing more theorizing than actual research, but Sam’ll take what he can get. Anything is better than sitting around, waiting.

* * *

Dean must doze off at some point during the cartoon, smashed up against Charlie, because the next thing he knows, he’s blinking awake just before dawn, yellow-pink parking lot lights shining across his face.

Charlie is asleep next to him, curled around her laptop and a couple old journals.

Rolling away, Dean winces at the headache pounding at his temples. Snagging a tepid bottle of water from the floor, he drains it and staggers towards the bathroom. He looks and feels like hell, but what else is new.

Pulling on a jacket and his boots, he silently lets himself out of the room in search of breakfast. This early in the day, the diner is almost empty, with one waitress and a couple of guys who are probably truckers. Why they stopped here of all places, he has no idea, but they’re not a threat.

“Sit anywhere, hon,” the waitress-- Gloria according to her name tag-- says when the bell rings. “I’ll be right there with some coffee.”

Nodding, Dean sits in the corner where he can keep an eye on the door and glances over the menu. He’s had this exchange a thousand times in hundreds of diners, and the familiarity is as comforting as the pancakes and sausage. And if he turns up the flirting a bit to loosen her tongue, well, that’s familiar too.

“What’s with all the new construction?” he asks, jerking his thumb towards the outskirts of town. “Pretty town like this…”

Gloria’s lips go thin. “Some new church moving to town-- moving their world headquarters.”

“That sounds like it’d be great for the town.”

She snorts. “That’s what the town council said, anyway. But we like our space.”

“So the Zubios leaving town--”

“You know too much for an outsider.” Gloria scowls before relenting.

“Just read the newspaper, ma’m. Seems like they were real pillars of the town.”

“The first of the construction trucks-- one of those giant excavator things-- drove through the Zubio’s land, tore it up something awful, and then took out the main bridge across the river for the farmland.” She snorts, leaning over to refill his coffee. “Should have made them pay to put it all back, of course, but Annika hasn’t been the same since her husband passed.”

Dean nods slowly, drinking his coffee while she bustles off to do other things. His phone buzzes across the table-- Charlie wondering where he is-- while he’s still trying to figure out how everything fits together.

This might be their sort of thing, but only tangentially, in that the folks involved aren’t all human. Toby sure seemed to be, and he’d be willing to bet a good portion of Katerina’s kids are human too.

Charlie drops a stack of notes on the table before grabbing the seat across from him. “S’up, handmaiden?”

“Can’t you promote me or something? Knight? Squire even?”

“If you ever show up again, sure. Until then? Handmaiden it is.” Smiling up at Gloria, Charlie rattles off her order and wraps her hands around her coffee mug. “So, didn’t really have a chance to fill you in on what Katerina told me yesterday.”

Taking a deep breath, Dean mirrors her, pulling his coffee close. “I await your brilliance.”

“Asshole,” Charlie snarks. “Mostly? This _really_ isn’t your sort of thing. Reading between the lines, I got the impression that the new church-- one of those prosperity gospel ones, gives me the heebies-- bribed half the town council into ignoring the zoning laws. General corrupt bullshit and the Zubios got caught in the crossfire.”

“So they picked up sticks?”

“Yep.” She pauses while Gloria drops off her plate and refills their coffee. “We can poke around for another day or so, but really… as much as it’s stupid and unfair, this isn’t the sort of thing we can do anything about.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “But you know people who can?”

“It’s right up their alley. I just wanted to let you know before I dropped them a line.”

“Drop away,” Dean says. “I want to be out of town before they do anything though.”

“No worries.” Charlie grins, grabbing her phone and typing rapidly. “They’re specialists-- you won’t have to deal with them at all.”

“Awesome.”

* * *

Crowley crushes the message from the kennel keeper-- Priam will survive, but will never hunt again-- and looks around his throne room. The death of one hellhound and the near maiming of another can only have one response.

“I don’t care what you do. But bring me the Winchester’s heads,” he growls. “They have interfered enough.”

Pushing himself to his feet, he watches the court scatter before him, fleeing to whatever ratholes they have. The braver/ stupider ones will emerge and go after the Winchesters.

It’s a win-win. Either the Winchesters die or he loses some of his more… ambitious… followers. He’ll be more secure either way.

* * *

Carefully, Dean hammers the last peg into the cement wall of his room before pulling on it to make sure that it’s stable. That done, he starts hanging weapons. Adjusting the obsidian hatchet from Purgatory so it hangs evenly, Dean steps back and looks around.

He’s pretty sure anyone who ever had a room of their own would be horrified-- Lisa would be, at any rate, and she’s still his standard for ‘normal’-- but it works for him. He’ll never be vulnerable here.

Emerging from his room feels like emerging from a cocoon, able to deal with all the catastrophes surrounding him.

Kevin and Charlie are cooking in the kitchen, something involving potatoes. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Dean leans against the wall, watching them work.

Charlie deposits a bag of carrots, a knife, and a cutting board in front of him before he’s even halfway through his coffee. “Peel and slice those.”

“Okay…” Dean draws out, turning to grab a bowl from the cabinet. “How thick, your highness?”

Charlie shrugs, makes a so-so motion with her hand. “Quarter inch? Evenly.” Turning back to the stove, she guides Kevin through cooking onions. “I can’t believe your mom didn’t teach you how to cook beyond Easy Mac.”

“And scrambled eggs,” Kevin says indignantly, snatching the spatula back and elbowing her out of the way. “She tried. I just suck at it. I’m _awesome_ at baking.”

“Baking is math,” Dean points out, snagging the trash can. “Of course you’re awesome at it.”

“Chemistry actually,” Kevin snaps. “And just how good were you when you left home?”

Charlie and Dean share a look behind Kevin’s back.

“You want the truth-- which will make you feel bad-- or you want the smug answer?” Charlie asks.

“The truth.”

“If you can make it out of what you can get at a gas station, I probably have,” Dean volunteers. “Sam liked the marshmallow mac and cheese.”

“That’s disgusting.” Charlie stares at him.

“Yeah, it was,” Dean laughs. “That was a good week actually-- Dad left enough money and he came home before anyone at school noticed anything was off.”

Kevin turns around to look at him. “That’s so fucked up.”

Charlie shrugs. “I knew how to do spaghetti, stir fry, and grilled cheese. Everything else is pretty much a variation on those.”

Slicing the carrots, Dean thinks about it for a moment, but nods his agreement.

Kevin sighs and moves the onions around in the skillet. “The plan had me living in the dorms for a couple of years. Being a prophet? Not part of the plan.”

Dean brings the bowl of carrots over, setting them next to the stove. “Plans are worthless anyway.”

Charlie wraps an arm around him, hugging Kevin briefly. “That’s what life is. Or something.”

They stand around, watching dinner cook, before Dean shakes himself and moves back to the table. “Right, time for something lighter. How about those baseball teams?”

They both turn to stare at him in disbelief.

“It’s February,” Kevin says slowly. “Baseball won’t start for a month and a half, at the earliest. Even I know that.”

“Uh… the latest World of Warcraft update? I’m trying here.”

Charlie snorts. “Yeah, the new update. Half my guild isn’t geared for raids yet because they’re either fucking around brawling or spending all their time with pet battles!”

“Tell me about it,” Kevin says, rolling his eyes. “Kyle hasn’t touched his main in like… two months. Too busy being a drunk monk in the auction house.”

“When the hell did you have time to play Warcraft?” Dean asks indignantly. “You’ve been on the run for most of the last year!”

Kevin shrugs. “You make time for things that are important. And I needed to do _something_ that wasn’t fearing for my life.”

“Ughhhh, those fucking monks--” Charlie starts, running off on some tangent about her main getting nerfed hard when the abilities were rebalanced. Dean has no real idea what she’s saying, but she’s excited about it.

Eventually, Sam comes in, attracted by the chatter and the warmth of the kitchen. Conversation shifts from Warcraft specifically to gaming in general, Kevin, Charlie, and Sam nerding about starting a Dungeons and Dragons game when everyone is home and there’s nothing pressing. Relaxing against the wall, Dean lets the noise wash over him.

Until his phone rings, disrupting the flow of conversation. Stepping into the hall, Dean answers his phone, already dreading whatever Henry has to say.

“Good, you’re at the Bunker,” Henry says brusquely. “Listen, the Shreveport annex is missing a few volumes of Hubert’s _Classification of Mystical Fish_. I need you to bring those to me.”

“Are you kidding me? No.” Blinking, Dean doesn’t wait for Henry to respond. “We just got here after back to back hunts, Sam’s got a broken arm, and I’m not driving twelve hours to bring you some book on fucking fish.”

Henry sputters out something, but Dean hangs up the phone, leaning against a pillar and looking around. Sam’s right. They can do something meaningful with this, even if it means spending weeks scanning and copying everything before pushing it online.

That’ll drive him nuts, but maybe he can get Charlie-- and Kevin, once he’s done translating the trials-- to volunteer.

Re-entering the kitchen, Charlie pushes him into his seat while Sam slides a bowl of-- well, Dean has no idea what this is, but it’s pretty hard to go wrong with potatoes, onions, and hamburger, even if there are green things-- and a beer his way. Settling down to eat, Dean feels most of the remaining tension slip from his shoulders. It’s not his entire family, but most of them are here, and safe if not whole.

Sam pulls him aside after dinner. “What’d Henry want?”

“Some book on mystical fish. Because we’re his errand boys and the Stynes don’t have it.”

“How sure are you it was Henry?”

Dean shrugs. “Arrogant and dismissive and the phone number came up as his.”

Sam frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t know, it might be nothing.”

“But…”

“But I was talking to Kevin this morning, before Charlie kidnapped him. The dials in the war room once we were gone? Kept jumping up and down.”

“Like something was trying to get in?”

“Or there was a massive demon attack that left no sign. We don’t know how sensitive those dials are.”

Dean mirrors Sam’s frown. “We would have noticed.”

Sam shrugs. “I know Henry says the Stynes are part of the Men of Letters, but there was something…”

“That’s not why they were here. You think they might be demons?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. They could just be scumbags. Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve run into that.”

“Awesome.” Dean thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “Alright, let's dig into the membership records and go from there. We’ve got them around here somewhere, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Henry used them to figure out where to go to begin with.”

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Ok. Let’s go.” He doubles back to the kitchen, grabbing a beer and a fresh cup of coffee for Sam. He makes a note to increase the amount of coffee he buys when he’s at the store-- he and Sam pretty much live off the stuff anyway, and Kevin and Charlie are making a sizeable dent-- before dropping into a chair and pulling a box towards himself.

* * *

The lights come up as Castiel pulls his sword from the body in front of him. He turns away as Naomi approaches, wiping the blade clean on the hem of his coat.

“Very good, Castiel,” she tells his back. “Quick, emotionless… no hesitation. You have done well.”

Naomi’s voice tears at his ears, her praise grates. Nodding, Castiel steels his face and turns back around, pushing his angel blade back up his sleeve where it will be at the ready. “It is my duty to follow orders at all costs.”

“Yes, it is,” she says coolly, looking over the hundreds copies of Dean that litter the floor. She steps closer, well into his personal sphere. “You know your orders?”

Blinking, he straightens to stand at attention. “Retrieve the demon tablet and prophet from the Winchesters’ control. Locate the angel tablet, return it to Heaven. Tell the Winchesters nothing.”

Naomi looks vaguely dissatisfied, but waves her hand. “Go.”

Castiel nods, spreading his wings and disappearing blindly from the warehouse.

Landing on his knees in the dirt-- somewhere in Madagascar-- Castiel clutches the bare earth like it will bring him some sort of relief. His chest heaves with sobs, all the emotion he could not show to Naomi. He gives himself a couple dozen seconds to _feel_ before locking it back down.

Short of branding his own ribs, there is nowhere on Earth where Naomi cannot find him in moments. And he is not quite ready to sunder his connection with the Host to that extent yet.

Pulling out his phone, Castiel watches as missed calls and voicemails trickle in, interspersed with text messages. None of it tells him anything useful, but it gives him at least the illusion of being productive.

He flies to the Midwest once his phone is updated, landing somewhere outside Tulsa, Oklahoma, pulled there by a faint longing he cannot identify. It disappears almost as soon as he arrives, fading away to combine with the background prayers that permeate the ætheric plane.

Shaking himself, Castiel sends a text to Dean and then, when he doesn’t get an immediate response, calls him. “Hello, Dean.”

“Fuck, Cas, you sure picked a hell of a time to call.” Dean grunts, followed by a rustling noise and a loud clang. “Kinda busy right now.”

“Dean!” Castiel looks up, towards the horizon, catching a glimpse of the full moon behind thickening clouds. “Where are you?”

“Fuck man, uh… tiny farm off 234, outside Trumbull, Nebraska.” There’s another clang and Dean yells something incomprehensible before the sound of a gunshot. “Werewolves,” he repeats.

Flipping the phone closed, Castiel takes flight again. The effort burns-- they were never meant to lift a vessel so often. Three flights in five minutes is more than he’s used his wings in over a year.

As when he rounds the corner of the building, a bullet sears past him and into the back of a very young werewolf. Dean’s attention is already elsewhere, so Castiel drops his sword into his hand and jumps to plunge it into the werewolf’s heart.

There are at least two others, dead and dying in the gravel clearing. Dean tackles a fourth to the ground next to a pickup truck, burying his knife into the monster’s throat. Rolling to his feet, Dean grins maniacally as he places two bullets into the werewolf’s heart.

Huffing, Dean holsters his gun and turns towards Castiel. “Hey, Cas. Nice of you to show up.”

Breathing out, Castiel relaxes minutely before striding towards Dean. This is Dean, the real one. “Are you by yourself? You could have been killed!”

“Yeah, well, you know how it is.” Dean shrugs, bending down to pull his knife from the werewolf’s throat. “Better to hunt alone than with help that’s already hurt.” He blinks rapidly before wiping a hand across his face. The blood on his forehead is somehow even more red in the moonlight as it smears across.

There’s some sort of censure there, but right now, his primary concern is making sure Dean is alright. “And there was no one else to act as back up? This needed to be dealt with immediately?” He reaches out, grabs Dean’s chin and tilts his head towards the sodium yellow light coming from the house.

Dean sputters, tries to yank his head away. “Dude, personal space.”

“Shut up,” Castiel orders, pushing his grace into Dean’s body, healing the lurking concussion and wrenched knee. Dean’s face flushes beneath his touch, warmth flooding his cheeks and into Castiel’s fingertips. “Is there anything else?”

“No. I’m fine. Let go, Jesus.” Dean jerks back as soon as Castiel’s grip loosens. “It’s too cold for this bullshit. Help me take care of the bodies.”

It doesn’t take very long to move the werewolves-- five of them, Castiel missed one earlier-- to the ancient wooden barn, stacking them in the corner where it will burn the hottest, stacking some spare lumber over them, and setting it alight.

Dean is tense and silent, moving mechanically in the cold to ensure their tracks are covered. Castiel helps when he can, but it’s still a few hours of work.

Eventually, Dean falls into the driver’s seat of the Impala, turning the ignition and leaning back in the seat while he waits for it to warm up. “Where you been, Cas? You’ve been gone for over a month.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Well, that’s just great. Get out of the car,” Dean orders. “I’m too tired to play games. If you can’t tell me, go find someone else.”

Castiel sighs and turns to face Dean. “Dean, I can’t tell _you_. Or any other Winchester.”

Dean perks up, twisting in the seat. “Kevin?”

Castiel twists his face into an exaggerated grimace. He’s fairly certain Naomi cannot penetrate the warding on the car, but he’d rather not risk it or lie to Dean.

“Not Kevin. Can you give me some more information here? Like where you’ve been for starters.”

“My superiors had… questions… regarding Samandriel’s death.” He’s almost certain Dean doesn’t see the wince. “And wanted to impart new orders.”

Dean is silent for a long time, enough that Castiel suspects he’s dozing off, before he leans forward again. “You’re under orders. At least some of those orders involve Kevin and, I’m guessing, the tablet. And you…”

Castiel misses the rest of what Dean says, his connection to Heaven abruptly burning white hot. “Too close,” he gasps out, struggling to remain in the car.

“Shit,” Dean spits out before transitioning into a nonsense tale about a talking fish who gets lost? Kidnapped? In any case, it works, keeping them well away from what he cannot tell Dean.

Dean shifts the car into gear and starts driving towards town. They drive into a larger city about thirty minutes later, where Dean pulls into a motel parking lot. “I don’t understand, where’s Sam?” Castiel asks.

“With Kevin, someplace safe.” Dean swallows. “I can’t… I can’t put them at risk. You get it?”

Closing his eyes briefly, Castiel nods. “I’m compromised. I understand.”

Dean stares at him hopelessly for a moment before climbing out of the car. “Only until we know what’s going on, alright? I’ve got a friend within a few hours drive. You can tell her and then we’ll figure it out.”

* * *

Dean’s too tired to drive all the way to Sioux Falls after an already long day hunting werewolves, but falling asleep was not the plan. He checked them into the nearest motel with every intention of just showering and maybe figuring out what else Cas can tell him about his orders, not sleeping.

Given how well he’s been sleeping though, it shouldn’t startle him as much as it does when the alarm on his phone goes off, waking him up from a sound sleep. Cas is stretched out next to him, watching TV-- Good Morning, America-- and handing Dean his phone. “Good morning.”

Dean barely suppresses the shiver that runs down his spine. “Mornin’” he grunts out, rolling out of bed so he has a reason to face away from Cas. “Anything interesting in the world?”

“There will be a new pope.”

“Huh? Pope-intine die or somethin’ while we weren’t paying attention?”

Cas looks puzzled, but shakes his head. “Benedict is stepping down. This is actually unprecedented.”

“You’d know better than me.” Dean shrugs and heads towards the shower.

The shower drowns out Cas’s response and gives Dean time to get his head back on straight. Whatever is going on, they don’t need to bring _feelings_ into it.

The drive to Jody’s is tense. Every time they start to relax into each other, Cas stiffens up with a jolt and looks out the window at the passing fields. Whatever his orders are, they’re strict. Even at the height of the Apocalypse, Cas relaxed more than this, would allow himself to enjoy whatever music Dean shoved into the tape player. Now… he’s stiff as a board, rigidly watching the slush and mud.

The drive to Bobby’s junkyard doesn’t require thought at all. Dean does it entirely on auto-pilot, worried about what he’s going to find at the other end.

His chest hurts when they pull into the drive. Jody has done the best she can on their behalf to keep the burned out skeleton safe or from attracting daredevil teenagers going spelunking. But she doesn’t live out here and, despite the fence surrounding the place, plenty of bored teenagers have been tagging the remains. The locks on the outbuildings are still intact though, for all the good they do. The lack of regular maintenance will bring them down too, eventually, faded paint already starting to rust through.

Within a couple years, there won’t be anything here but rust and the occasional buried body.

Cas swallows beside him, looking at the house. “Dean, I--”

“Don’t, Cas,” Dean cuts him off. “You were crazy or dead or whatever. It’s done.” He swallows harshly and shakes his head. “Bobby’s dead and it doesn’t… It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Still.”

“It wasn’t you,” Dean bites out. “It was the leviathan. You were dead.”

“And who let them out?” Cas says bitterly. “Me.”

Jody parks her truck behind them, cutting them off.

She pulls Dean into a hug when they’re out of the cars, forcing him to bend down so she can reach him properly. “We need to have a conversation about telling me when you’re alive, young man. Sam too.”

Dean wrinkles his nose before squeezing her tight and stepping away. “It’s been a rough few months.”

“Obviously.” Looking Cas up and down, Jody raises an eyebrow, “So this is Cas?”

“Uh, right. Cas, this is Jody. You can tell her what you can’t tell me,” Dean says, trying to hide his bitterness and leading the way through the yard.

The exterior of the garage is in worse shape than the inside, but Dean can see the rust starting to eat through in spots, water damage bleeding down the corrugated siding. But the old van bench seats he’d dragged in years ago are still intact, so there’s somewhere to sit out of the late winter wind.

He doesn’t stick around after filling in Jody. Grabbing one of the portable tool kits off a shelf, he heads into the yard to pick up parts for the Impala. He could probably stay, hang out in the background and blatantly eavesdrop, but somehow that feels worse than not hearing it at all.

He’s rearranging the trunk to fit the new parts when Jody and Cas come back outside.

Cas wanders out of earshot in studied nonchalance while Jody beelines to Dean.

Dean blows out a sigh, before lowering the fake bottom to the trunk. “What’s the verdict?”

“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Dean.” She pats her pocket, “Short version, he can tell you nothing and needs to get some sort of tablet to Heaven. Two of them. And a prophet or something. I took notes, I’ll send them to you and Sam when I’m back to the station.”

Dean nods, more focused on Cas than what Jody’s telling him. “There’s nothing else? Did he…” Dean trails off, not sure how to finish.

“You are _not_ asking me if he likes you back.” Jody rolls her eyes, resettles her belt. “I know you boys missed having a mom growing up but come on.”

“What? No.” Dean twists around to face her. “I’m just worried about him, alright? We still don’t know how he got out of Purgatory and then he fucks off to Heaven-- after killing another angel-- for over a month and comes back like this and--”

“Alright, alright.” She holds up a hand to stop the flood of words. “I get it, you’re worried about your friend. But he’s got you in his corner, he’ll be fine.”

Dean sighs noisily.

“That said, if you’re more comfortable with him sticking around up here for a few days, he can stay with me.”

“I don’t… Whatever he wants to do.” Dean starts packing the spare parts again. There’s no right answer, which doesn’t help at all. “He’s a grown ass man or whatever. He doesn’t have to stay with me if he doesn’t want to.”

“I do want to,” Cas says quietly behind him. “But I cannot disobey my orders. They’re already--”

“So stay!” Dean spins around when Cas cuts off, watches his face twist the same way it did in the car earlier. “It’s not that hard.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Too slow, Dean puts it together. “Heaven’s putting the screws to you. They want those things bad.”

Cas nods. “At best, I can focus on the orders that keep me away from you.”

Dean nods, abandoning the trunk to pull open the side door to drag out his duffle bag. He digs through it for a few seconds, pulling out the comic books he’s still not had a chance to read and his journal before zipping it back up.

“Here.” He throws the bag at Cas’s chest, throat tightening.

“Dean, I--”

“Save it. You gotta do what you gotta do. I get it.”

“What would you have me do, Dean?” Cas snaps. “Torture myself and endanger all of you? Brilliant plan when I don’t even know _why_ they want what they want.”

“Dammit, Cas--”

Cas shakes his head and disappears.

Shit.

* * *

Sam’s email pops up a notification at the same time Kevin emerges from wherever he’s been hiding into the library. A couple of weeks with other people have finally put a dent into Kevin’s exhaustion, even if he is still regularly yelling at them to shut up so he can concentrate.

Kevin beelines for the coffee maker Sam had moved into the library last night. Sam shudders at the amount of sugar Kevin pours in before turning away to check the email.

The first few sentences are as chatty as Jody ever gets-- updates on town and her personal life, an update on the ongoing vandalism problem out at Bobby’s-- but then… “Holy shit,” Sam whispers.

“What’s up?” Kevin asks, sliding into the chair next to Sam. “H.H. Holmes come back to life or something?”

“Whoever is running Heaven has lost their freaking mind. They ordered Cas to drag you and the demon and angel tablets up to Heaven.” Sam leans back, envisioning the scene that would cause.

“We don’t have the angel tablet,” Kevin says, hunching in his chair. “And given how hard the demon one is, I don’t want it either.”

Sam waves a hand, eagerly reading over the details Jody was able to extract from Cas. “We’ll take care of it. Cas is going to-- Oh,” he breaks off, reading the last paragraph. “Cas knows he’s a danger to us, so he’s going to search for the angel rock on his own.”

Kevin snorts into his coffee mug, “So that’s going to go over well with Dean.”

“Yeah…” Sam says slowly, glancing at his own research into the history of the Men of Letters and Kevin’s piles of translation notes. “Fuck.”

“I’m pretty close to another trial, I think, if you want a distraction,” Kevin says, draining his coffee and moving to the other side of the table.

“Give me anything you’ve got. We’ll work out the particulars later.”

* * *

One by one, they trickle back in, utterly flummoxed by the flannel wearing nightmares’ disappearance. Not a single one even laid eyes on the muttonheads, let alone accomplished their simple task.

“You mean to tell me that none of you could even _find_ them?” He forces himself to stay in control.

“No, sire. But then, we’re not the older one’s butt buddy.” Patrick slides to the back of the room, trying to blend in with the crowd.

Crowley gestures to his new hellhound, barely out of puppy-hood, and Juliet is off like a shot, jumping from shadow to shadow to weave between the demons that fill the throne room.

In seconds, she has Patrick by a wing nub-- he’s not even old or powerful enough to have proper horns-- and drags him into the open space before the throne.

Standing, Crowley flares his wings, pushing them through the demons on either side, dragging their attention to him and Patrick. Their true forms beat against him, trying to unpin themselves. Crowley ignores their fluttering, intent on Patrick below him.

Juliet growls, deep and commanding, when Patrick attempts to shuffle backwards from under her, digging her hind claws in deeper.

“Release.” Crowley waits for Juliet to climb off before meeting Patrick’s eyes. “Did you have something to say before the court?”

“N-- nothing of import,” he stutters out.

“Very well then.” Crowley drops into a crouch, plunging his hand into Patrick’s chest and squeezing. Patrick gasps, squirming away. “You appear to have forgotten some important things, allow me to remind you.” Dragging his hand through Patrick’s form-- gone smokey in shock or pain-- Crowley grabs hold of what would be his intestines and yanks. “You do what I tell you,” twist, “and you keep your tongue in your head.”

Looking up, Crowley wipes his hand on Patrick’s chest and pushes to his feet, “Now, find me the Winchesters.”

The court scatters, leaving Patrick’s bleeding form at his feet.

* * *

Dean drains his glass and leans back in his chair, pushing away his computer and stacks of files. A week of searching has gotten them absolutely nowhere: nothing on finding an innocent soul, nothing on how to get to Hell, zip, zero, zilch on _anything_. Dean slops some more whiskey into his glass and drinks that too.

Sam finishes his current page before looking up. “What’s up?”

“I’m giving up, going across town to call up a crossroads demon and seeing if we can get a name that way.”

Sam levels an unimpressed bitchface at him. “Uh-huh. And when the demon doesn’t have any idea? Or Crowley shows up?”

Dean shrugs. “I’ll take the demon knife with me.”

“No. Even if it wasn’t a terrible idea, Cas’ll kill you if you die for this.”

Dean feels his face go stony. “Yeah, well, he’s got his own thing going on. So…”

Sam rolls his eyes and turns back to his book. “We’ll find a different way. One that’s not suicidal.”

“Awesome. Let me know when that way shows up.” Pushing himself to his feet, Dean leaves the library and heads towards the shooting range they’d found in the back areas of the Bunker.

Unfortunately, the path there takes him past the rooms they’d set aside for company. Kevin’s passed out in his room after yet another all nighter. Charlie’s room is empty-- she said she’d be back, just needed to take care of some stuff-- but already starting to show signs of a personality. Only the last room is just as empty now as it was when Dean had set it up-- clean sheets and a towel on the foot of the bed, a robe hanging in the back of the closet, waiting for Cas.

Dean pulls the door firmly shut after double checking that everything is intact and continues down the hall.

After a couple hours of obliterating paper targets, Dean blows off clean up in favor of heading into town and it’s only bar. Staring at the Bunker’s walls isn’t accomplishing anything and it’s too late to find another hunt for tonight. Baby roars under his lead foot, speeding down the county road into Smith Center. He might as well be flying, except he controls Baby, knows her reactions, trusts that she won’t fall out of the sky on him.

The bartender at the local is starting to recognize him by drink if not by name, but that doesn’t mean much. Donnie certainly doesn’t have any problems with him only nursing a couple beers over the course of the evening, isn’t expecting him to be more than he is.

He ignores the old men at the tables in favor of grabbing a seat at the bar. Donnie nods at him, dropping off a whiskey the next time he’s at that end of the bar, but otherwise leaving him alone..

“Did you ever… do something you know is a stupid ass idea, but you couldn’t come up with any better solutions to the problem?” Dean asks when Donnie shows back up after the first whiskey.

Donnie snorts, grabs Dean’s empty glass and slides him a beer. “I think you mean my entire late teens and twenties, man. Couldn’t hack high school, so joined the army. That went--” he pauses, searching for the word, “tits up, so I bounced around for a bit.”

Dean nods. “Had a buddy who did that. He’s saving the world now though.”

“And I’m slinging beer in small town Kansas twenty minutes from where I was born.” Donnie shrugs. “Not that it matters. This something that gonna get you in trouble with the law?”

Dean snorts. “I mean…”

“Right.” Donnie flits down to the other end of the bar, refills a few drinks and checks on the rest. “Call it youthful indiscretions or whatever. But don’t come crying to me when your old lady kicks you to the curb.”

“Oh, don’t really need to worry about that.” Dean looks around the bar, carefully not making eye contact.

“Old man, whatever. The point is, balance the stupid ass decision against the rest of your life. Isn’t much in the way of problems that can’t be solved.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean waves it off, taking several gulps of his beer. “It’s just all my responsibility.”

Donnie flips Dean’s coaster over, cutting Dean off, and stares at him. “Go play some pool, man. See if you can beat Jerry over there. _Relax_. No matter what it is, it’s not all your fault.”

Jerry’s a retired trucker who has spent most of his downtime in bars just like this one and puts up a far better pool game than Dean was expecting. The second game ends up being more an exhibition of skill than an actual competition, with half the patrons-- and Donnie-- watching and commenting.

It’s a good evening, even if Donnie maintains the cut-off so Dean only gets two beers. Here though, he’s only responsible for sinking his next ball, for responding to Jerry’s smack talk. He can just _be_.

Dean leaves with the rest of the evening crowd, trickling out into the early March cold. Most places, Dean would stick around, hustle some up some cash. But hustling at a bar where he’s a regular isn’t worth it.

The crossroads beckon as he drives through, gravel flying up from the mud as he crosses it. Everything he needs is in the trunk, it would take minutes, at most, to get a demon to show up. Then a leisurely night finding out what he needs--

Dean slams the door on that train of thought, refocusing on the road and hitting the gas a bit harder.

* * *

The demon screeches, nearly sobbing in pain. “He didn’t tell us why, just that he wanted whatever we found!”

Stepping back, Castiel coldly watches the demon he has hanging from the rafters in the abandoned house. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“He’s got some bitch, fuck if I know her name, locked up. She’s feeding him information about where to look.”

“What are you looking for?” Castiel runs the tip of his blade along the demon’s jaw line. “Crowley wouldn’t put out this much effort if there wasn’t something to get out of it.”

“Crypts,” the demon sobs. “Lucifer’s crypts. The ones we’ve found have all been ransacked, but apparently the bitch is the last of Lucifer’s followers. She knows where all of them are.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t--” The demon breaks off when the angel blade approaches his face. “Hell North, he calls it. Some old mental hospital. Drags his entire court topside, forces everyone to take meat suits… It’s disgusting. He keeps all his political prisoners there.”

“And it is…” Castiel growls, stepping back slightly.

“Massachusetts, Fall River.”

Castiel pauses, waiting for the demon to say anything else. “Thank you for your assistance.” Raising his palm to the demon’s forehead, he burns it out of existence, letting the dead body sag to the floor.

He pushes his blade back up his sleeve, glancing around the room, before taking flight.

The outside of the hospital was once a grand building, faced with granite and the trappings of high society. The brick expansions-- built off the back of the house and enveloping like giant red wings-- lack the grandiosity, but have been kept up better.

Looking the building over, Castiel scoffs at the warding. Every warding system in the world and Crowley never bothered to keep angels out. Walking around the corner, he finds a seldom used side-door and breaks the lock, battering his way inside.

Rusted beds and wheelchairs litter the corridors as he walks, with rotting sheets and clothing piled into lumps against the walls. Papers rustle underfoot, strewn about by the elements in rooms with broken windows. Fearlessly, Castiel wanders the halls, looking for Crowley’s prisoners.

The basement of the original house, built out of stone and centuries old cement, leaking moisture and smelling strongly of rot and dirt, nearly hides the prisoners and their guards.

Three demons are sitting around a table and playing cards when he finds them. Castiel jerks back around the corner, listening to the demons’ chatter. Swallowing, he closes his eyes briefly-- wishing he had back up--- before walking purposely down the corridor.

The lead demon jerks his head up at the sound of Castiel’s footsteps, looking panicked for a brief moment before streaming out of his vessel and returning to Hell. The other two follow suit as soon as they recognize him, leaving three corpses on the floor of the asylum.

“Crap.” He should have moved faster, should have flown at them.

“What’s going on out there?” a familiar voice asks crankily from the last cell. “Or do you think I can’t hear?”

Breaking the lock-- salt encrusted iron, interesting-- Castiel tosses it over his shoulder and pulls the door open.

“Aren’t you a little short for a stormtrooper?” Meg asks, looking up from where she’s chained to a rusting radiator. She looks terrible-- battered and bruised, open and weeping sores on her wrists, a trickle of dried blood down the side of her face. “Or is the Empire recruiting farm boys now?”

“I… don’t understand that reference.”

“Bullshit, Clarence,” Meg sneers. “Even if Dean-o never made you watch them, Sammy sure as fuck did. I’ve been inside his angsty little head.”

Castiel stares at her blankly before crossing the room and tearing the chains free. “I need to know where Lucifer kept the angel tablet.”

“Is that what’s got the prick in such a lather? Even if I knew, why the fuck would I tell you?”

“Because you don’t want Crowley to get his hands on it anymore than I do.”

“So you’re going to turn it over to the god squad?” She laughs. “I have no idea where the tablet is, that sort of thing was never shared with minions, you know that.”

Castiel nods solemnly. “Can you narrow it down?”

“Try Missouri,” she says after a moment. “Azazel was in a rush the last time he was running errands-- there was more power there than in any of the others.”

Crouching down, he shatters the shackles that keep her chained. “Do you need assistance?”

“I’m good, Clarence.” Tilting her head, Meg looks at him seriously. “You know, we should really move some furniture around one of these days, give the pizza man a workout. It’d be all matter of hot.”

Stunned, Castiel stares at her in silence.

“You do remember the pizza man, right Clarence?”

“Of course I do,” he says brusquely. “It is a good memory.” Helping her to her feet, he tries to heal her a bit while supporting her to the hallway. Once she’s standing on her own, he opens the other cell door, quickly stabbing the demon inside without saying anything.

“Hot,” Meg laughs. “Thanks for the rescue and all, flyboy, but I think it’s time we separate.”

Nodding, Castiel pulls out his phone. “I’m not certain what Sam and Dean are doing, but they’re staying very far from Crowley.”

“If you--” Meg swallows. “Let me know when you find the tablet. There might be other, more useful, things there too.”

“For you or for me?”

“How would I know? Lucifer kept a lot of shit.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sighing over his coffee in the kitchen, Sam keys in another search term, trying to find a hunt that will keep them occupied. Dean stomps by, face set and beelining for the coffee pot. He doesn’t look as bad as Sam half expected, but he’s got the pinched impatient look that he gets when he’s bored.

At this point, hunting with a broken arm is better than staring at another folder of faded print and barely legible margin notes that get them absolutely nowhere.

Sam’s fingers itch to check on Amelia, but he forces himself to ignore it and search for hunts.

There’s a bunch of options-- demons in Denver, probably a ghost in Wichita, something eating folks in southeast Missouri-- within a day’s drive, but his preference is the vampires in Conway Springs. Bloody enough to keep Dean happy, close enough they can get there and back in a day, or faster if Kevin runs into trouble.

Sam turns the laptop towards Dean when he comes back with a bowl of cereal. “So… vampires?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know anything else about--”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s something _that’s not this_. Where?”

Sam passes Dean the information he’s gathered so far before heading back to his room to pack.

Four hours later, they’re in Conway Springs and everything is going down the drain. Krissy and her friends are hunting, Vic is allowing-- _encouraging--_ them to do so, and they’re leaving a mile-wide trail of bodies behind. The next two days are just as bad, running into more vampires, freshly turned ones that just don’t make sense.

None of it makes sense-- until Dean figures out what Vic is doing. It hurts like a bitch to smash his cast across Vic’s face and dive out of the way of Aiden’s shot. But he manages it, doesn’t even feel the bone shift.

It’s not great, watching another set of hunters take shape far too young, but he and Dean were even younger, so maybe Sam doesn’t have any room to protest.

He pulls Josephine aside when all is said and done, makes sure she knows where the Bunker is and has every phone number he can think to give her. It’s flimsy protection, but it’s all they’ll accept.

Dean pulls up next to an old beater near the Bunker entrance. It looks vaguely familiar, but not enough for Sam to place it. A mid-nineties Escort could be anyone’s car, there’s certainly enough of them on roads.

“You know, for a secret hideout, an awful lot of folk who know where this place is,” Dean says wryly, staring out the windshield.

Sam sighs and nods. “Maybe Kevin invited a girl over.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds like our AP Prophet. All the parties, all the time.” Dean raises an eyebrow and makes a point of tucking his pistol into the back of his jeans. “We can only hope it’s something that healthy.”

Sam makes a face before leading the way down the stairs. Whoever’s car it is, they’ve done some work up here, excavating some of the mud that’s collected in the stairwell over the years.

“Kevin?” Sam calls as soon as they’re inside. “What’s going on?”

“Sam! Dean!” an excited voice calls from the kitchen. “Get in here and give me a hug, you lugs.”

“Garth?” Sam rolls his eyes and shoves his pistol further into the back of his pants. Dean motions with their bags and ducks out through the library towards their rooms.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sam blows it out and rounds the corner to the kitchen. “Hey Garth, Kevin. What’s going on?”

“Came to find you! And check on Kevin here, since he wasn’t on the houseboat.”

Right. “Uh… sorry about that. No one’d heard from you in a few weeks.”

“Nah, I get it. Wasn’t my finest moment.” Garth frowns before gesturing towards the table next to Kevin. “Where’s Dean-o?”

“We just go off a hunt. He’ll turn up in a few.” Sam turns so he can lean against the wall and stretch his legs out, accepting the coffee cup Kevin hands him. “Kev, what’d we miss?”

Sam lets Kevin’s ramble about Etruscan and Minoan Linear B wash over him, something about translating into ancient languages being easier than directly into English and… “Wait, what about Cas?”

Kevin rolls his eyes, savagely ripping into the plate of toast that had appeared in front of Sam. “I _said_ , having an angel around would make translating into English easier. Do you know when Cas is going to be back?”

“He’s not,” Dean cuts in flatly from the doorway. “Not anytime soon anyway.”

Kevin must see something in Dean’s face, because he doesn’t push. “Alright, do we have any other friendly angels? Because seriously, this third trial is a bitch.”

“Trial?” Garth asks. “What are you planning? Hell, I don’t even know what Kevin here is translating.”

Sam sighs, meets Dean’s eyes. Dean shrugs and looks away, pulling open the fridge and dragging out a couple beers and one of Kevin’s pops. “We think we can close the Gates of Hell. There’s three trials, we’ve completed one, the second one’s being a pain in the ass, and Kevin’s working on the last,” Sam explains.

Garth raises an eyebrow, “And you all think that’s a… good plan?”

“How is it _not_?” Dean explodes. “No more demons. That’s like… half of the trouble we’ve been facing for years!”

“I’m just sayin’, Dean. Those are some cosmically big levers to be pulling. You need to be real careful with those or what you let loose might be worse than what you stop.”

“We’re never letting what happened to our family happen again,” Sam hisses. “Nothing that gets through could possibly be worse than Azazel.”

“Okay, guys. Just wanted to make sure you’d thought this through.” Garth holds up his hands, backing down. “That’s an awful big risk though.”

Sam pushes himself to his feet, suddenly feeling the grime from the last few days. “I’m going to go shower.”

* * *

“Anyway…” Garth drawls out, watching Sam’s back, “I did come here to check in. Did you know your GPS is untraceable for like, twenty miles outside of here? I got as far as Red Cloud based on descriptions of your car, but geez, man. You’ve completely dropped off the map.”

“And it never occurred to just… drop a dime? Jesus, man. You disappear for weeks and then get on us for going quiet?” Dean demands.

Garth shrugs. “I was trying to take care of all the hunts you haven’t been.”

Dean sighs then nods. “If it was just us, we wouldn’t care. Fuck, man. You left Kevin flapping in the breeze.”

Kevin waggles his hand back and forth. “It’s not like I’m a little kid.”

“Demons don’t give a shit,” Dean points out. “Last thing we need is Crowley getting his hands on you again.” Shaking his head, he stands up and grabs a couple coffee mugs. Splashing burnt coffee into them both, and pulling the creamer from the fridge for Garth, he continues, “Whatever, nothing can get in here. Garth, wanna catch me up on all the gossip?”

Eventually, Garth runs out of words or needs a break or something, so Dean sends him off towards the library with instructions to take photos of anything he needs. Kevin long since wandered off to do whatever, leaving Dean alone in the kitchen.

Alone for the first time in a while.

Breathing out, he tries to relax into the sense of being home, but he can’t. Not with the second trial still hanging over their heads. Too much of everything going on.

Sam finds him staring blankly at the kitchen table, idly doodling on a spare sheet of paper. “Dean?”

“Wha--” Blinking, he shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah. Whatcha need?”

“You get anywhere on figuring out where to find an innocent man?”

“Not unless someone on this list qualifies.” Dean lifts the list and drops it with a thud. “Every hunter that’s died over the last year.”

“Maybe we should call Cas after all. See if he’s got any ideas.”

“No, he’s…” Dean sighs. “I don’t even know. I don’t want him anywhere near Kevin though, not yet.”

“What _are_ we going to do about his orders?”

“You’re doing nothing, you’ve got your plate full already with the trials. I’ll deal with Cas as soon as I figure out how.”

Sam nods, pulling the whiskey out of the cabinet and setting it on the table. “We’ve got a list. Wanna get shitfaced and make poor choices regarding the summoning demons?”

Dean snorts, pours a healthy measure into his mug and shoots it back. “No. I’m doing this sober if we’re doing it at all.”

Sam frowns, tosses back a shot of his own. “Let’s go then.”

There’s a crossroads a few miles up the road, gravel to make digging easier, and with no signs to show where they are. Looking around, Dean doesn’t even see anything that definitively marks them as being in Kansas. Just in case.

The summoning goes without a hitch, a low level crossroads demon landing neatly in their trap.

She starts laughing as soon as she catches sight of them. “Are you boys really this stupid? The King wants your balls and you’re _summoning_ us? Oh, I am going to _enjoy_ this.”

Dean meets Sam’s eyes and shrugs.

“We just want some information. After that, well…” Sam trails off, threat unfinished.

“Oh, sure. Betray everyone and then die. Or be tortured, betray everyone, and then die.” She snorts. “You really need to work on your sales pitch, Sammikins.”

“We just need to know if someone is in Hell. That’s it. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

The demon crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Not seeing a carrot here. Because, gotta tell you, there’s not a whole lot you can do that’s worse than what Crowley will deal out. Make it worth my while. And gotta tell you, if I’m dying after this? My time is worth a lot.”

“You want a carrot? Alright then. Let’s go.” Dean sighs before stepping into the trap with her.

“As pretty as you are, Dean, you’re not much of a carrot. Now Sam? Or, ooh, that juicy little prophet you’ve got hidden away--”

“Okay, what about something else? Something no one else has ever gotten.”

“That’s a bold claim.” The demon steps forward, running a single nail along Dean’s cheek and jaw. “I know where you’ve been after all, spent my time on the rack just like everyone else.”

“Demonic whores definitely don’t get this. One punch for every truthful answer,” Dean says flatly. “No limit on questions.”

“Dean, no! Are you insane?”

“Got a better idea, Sammy?” Dean cuts Sam’s complaints off. “Love to hear it, but this is our best option.”

“Aww, but I’d rather punch Sam.” She pouts for a moment. “You won’t punch back? For that, I’d give you a lot more than yes or no.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and every other creepy crawly on the planet. Deal or no deal?”

She thinks about it for a moment before nodding. “Deal. At least this way, I get some payback.” Reaching out, she jerks Dean into a kiss, all sulfur and hellfire.

Dean gags as her tongue invades his mouth, plundering every corner. He pushes her away, to the edge of the trap, spitting blood from where she bit his lip. “What the fuck was that?”

“Don’t pretend that was your first kiss, Dean. All of Hell knows what happened to the older Winchester.” She laughs. “It’s held up as a lesson to all the bitty baby demons. The power of a deal.”

Dean flushes angrily before gesturing at Sam. “Get on with it.”

The first punch lands on his cheek, not quite hard enough to shatter it, but the skin splits. The second and third land on his ribs, overlapping hits that are almost guaranteed to crack them.

“That’s three questions,” she says pleasantly. “And three answers.”

Sam stares at her for a moment before double checking the notebook clutched in his hand. “Are any of the following in Hell?” He rattles off a list of names, too quickly for Dean to register them over the pain.

“No,” the demon says. Stretching her neck side to side, she glances at Dean. “And that was fifteen questions. I’m not some damn fairy to be tricked with multi-part questions. Buckle up, buttercup.” She doesn’t give him a chance to brace himself or anything, landing punch after punch, with both hands, just wailing on him. After the first few hits, he loses count, and just tries to keep her from killing him.

She stops after something… significantly more than twelve, but he has no idea how many.

Dean falls to his knees, holding up a hand. “Sam, _narrow down the fucking list_ ,” he gasps out.

The demon giggles brightly, taking a step back. “I was hoping I’d get a hit in for every demon you’ve killed. That’s about how many hunters we’ve killed over the last year, you know.”

Sam’s brow furrows as he reads over the list, murmuring the names rapidly, before shaking his head. “Actually, change of plans. Sorry, Dean.” He tosses the notebook behind him. “How do we get to Hell without Crowley knowing?”

The demon’s fist lands on his cheekbone again and this time, Dean definitely feels the bone break, pain shooting deep into his skull. His vision goes blurry then blacks out entirely on that side. Letting out a hoarse scream, he sags, nearly falls over.

He vaguely hears the demon is talking over the ringing in his ears, hopes that Sam is getting what she’s saying because he certainly isn’t.

There’s a flicker of dull orange light in front of him, the demon’s body getting tossed to the side as Sam rushes towards him.

“Dean!”

Dean flinches when Sam’s knees hit the gravel on his bad side, curling away before he can suppress it. He pushes Sam’s hand away. “Tell me you got it,” he gasps out. “Whatever you were trying to get.”

“Yeah, I got it. Better than a name.”

“Alright.” Dean carefully pushes himself more upright, trying to get some pressure off his ribs. “Next time, you’re the carrot.” Carefully, he presses his fingertips his cheekbone, white-hot pain lancing through him when something shifts under the skin. A few teeth shift against his tongue when he prods them with his tongue. Gasping, he nearly screams when he falls forward again, putting pressure on his ribs.

Sam lifts Dean to his feet, leads him to the Impala. “Stay here. Jesus, I knew this was a bad idea.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Sam snorts and pulls open the passenger side door and carefully pushes Dean inside. A moment later, Sam’s back with a flashlight in hand, gently tilting Dean’s head so he can get a good look at his face. “Shit.”

Dean would laugh if he could get his breath.

“So bad,” Sam mutters, probably assuming Dean can’t hear him. “What the fuck were you thinking… ” Roughly, Sam pushes Dean further into the car before digging for his phone. “Fuck it, I’m calling Cas.”

Dean must pass out, because the next thing he knows, Cas is standing in the devil’s trap and hurrying towards them. “Sam, Dean.” He pushes Sam out of the way, crouching in front of Dean.

Dean shifts poorly, puts too much pressure on his ribs, as Cas reaches forward to brush his cheek. It’s too much for Dean’s iron control and he’s screaming and gasping and…

Flying through the air.

He lands in a heap, a good fifteen feet from the car. The shock of it snaps his mouth closed, rattles him as he lays breathless, pain whiting out his vision while he tries and fails to scramble to his feet.

Cas stalks towards him, blade flashing in the low light, flipping it. Dean doesn’t have time to cry out before Cas is on him, landing blow after blow, without saying a word.

The last two uncracked ribs break under the onslaught, his other cheekbone, a few more teeth are shattered before Dean can curl into a ball, trying to protect himself. “Cas, stop,” he begs. “Why… what…”

Something shifts in Cas’s eyes, but not enough.

“No, Cas. No!” Dean closes his good eye as another blow lands, dislocating his shoulder the rest of the way. “Cas, stop, please.” He spits out the blood filling his mouth and tries again. “ _Castiel_. Please, I _need_ you--”

Cas stops dead. Dean cracks his eye open in time to see Cas’s angel blade vanish. Flinching back, Dean waits for Cas to finish.

A hand gingerly threads through Dean’s hair before cupping the back of his head. Dean feels the warmth of Cas’s grace sink into him, healing him before Cas takes a step back.

“Dean?” Cas looks around wildly for a moment before shaking his head. He whirls around wildly, grabbing Sam’s shoulder where he’s standing motionless by the car. A faint blue light flows into Sam and then Cas is gone.

Blinking rapidly, Dean falls forward before rolling onto his back. He’s not sure when he starts laughing-- only slightly hysterical-- but Sam’s by his side. Sitting up with a groan, Dean tilts his head back for a moment. “So, we’re never doing that again.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

Standing behind Dean in the gun range the next morning, Sam waits for Dean to eject the empty magazine. “You about ready to go?”

Dean jumps, setting his pistol heavily on the ledge in front of him. “Jesus. How long have you been standing there?”

“Just this magazine.” Sam shrugs, stepping up next to Dean. Dean still doesn’t look at him, fidgeting with a spent casing that landed on the ledge. “If you’re about done, we can head out, I’m ready whenever you are.”

“You got something useful out of the demon?” Dean says stiffly, flicks the casing down range. “Yeah, let me get cleaned up.”

Sam watches him go, frowning, before glancing down at the pile of brass underfoot.

Dean tosses him the car keys when they hit the garage, cradling a travel mug in his other hand, “You drive.”

They’re about halfway to Kansas City before Sam asks, “How much sleep did you get?”

Dean shrugs. “Enough. I’m fine, Sam.”

“Right. That’s why I’m driving, you’re clutching that coffee like a lifeline, and you’ve been dozing.” He glances over to glare at Dean. “You’ve not slept while I was driving in _years_.”

“Leave it, Sam, alright? It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“I know you can handle it, but that’s not why I asked.”

“What more do you want, Sam? To know that yesterday kinda fucked me up? Awesome. It did. Congrats,” Dean says dryly, draining his coffee and wedging the mug between the seat and the door. Reaching over, he turns the radio up before spinning it back down. “Ugh, where are we?”

“There’s a tape deck adapter in the glove compartment,” Sam points out, pulling his phone out of his pocket and finding his playlists.

“I don’t wanna listen to your crap.”

“Then you should either let your stupid rule go or not let me drive. Driver picks the music.”

Dean glares at the radio, like it’s the radio’s fault the only clear station is country, before sighing and digging into the glove compartment. “This is so fucking stupid.”

Sam doesn’t respond, finding the plug and pressing play.

* * *

The reaper is leaning against a taxi in North Kansas City when they find him, in an abandoned parking lot by a bowling alley.

“You Ajay?” Sam asks as they approach.

“Hey, I don’t want any trouble.” He pushes himself upright, holding his hands up. “Whatever it was, I had nothing to do with it.”

Sam raises an eyebrow and turns to look at Dean.

Dean looks just as skeptical. “Really, because we hear you’re the guy to talk to about hitching a ride to Hell.”

Ajay chuckles. “Of course. The question is, why would the Winchesters want to go back there? Didn’t get enough of a tour when you were there before?”

“You know who we are,” Sam points out. “So you know we won’t tell you. But you can get us there?”

“There ain’t nobody I can’t get there. Or back. Shit, I’m the one who ferried Bobby Singer south.”

“What? No, we burned his bones,” Dean says. “And the flask. That’s not possible.”

“If you’re on _Crowley’s_ shitlist? There’s no way you fly the friendly skies.”

Sam blows out a breath and lays a hand on Dean’s arm. Punching Ajay will get them nowhere fast. “Fine. How much to coyote two down and three up?”

“You can’t afford it. Not with the price Crowley’s got on your heads. Worth more than my existence.”

Dean growls beside him. “Better come up a price, or Crowley will be the least of your problems.”

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Ajay tsks. “So trigger happy. I said you can’t afford two down and three up. One down, two up… I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“Awesome, I’m in. Let’s go.”

“Ah, no.”

“I have to go, Dean. Not you,” Sam interjects. “I’m the one who has to complete the trial remember? You need to stay here and distract Crowley somehow.”

“Neither of you are going anywhere,” Ajay says dryly, “Until we’ve come to an arrangement as to my fee.”

Of course. “What’s the price?”

Ajay looks them up and down, carefully enough that Sam can see the dollar signs flashing above their heads, before coming to a decision. “A favor. Transferable on my part, but done by you personally.”

Dean glowers beside Sam in the thin afternoon sunlight. “We’re not killing anyone for you. Or anyone else.”

“Who said anything about killing?” Ajay shudders. “No. A favor is much more valuable.”

Sam shakes his head. “Deal. What do you need?”

“For right now? For large and stompy to go cause trouble elsewhere. Otherwise, gather whatever you want to take with you.”

Dean follows him over to the Impala. “I don’t like this.”

“It doesn’t matter whether or not we like it,” Sam hisses. “Even if we weren’t doing the trials, do you really want to let Bobby languish in Hell-- with Crowley’s _personal_ attention-- because you don’t like the guy doing the lifting? Jesus, Dean, we don’t all rate a fucking angel.”

“I-- That’s not what I was saying!”

Sam raises an eyebrow, double checking his machete and the demon killing knife. Loading a few more knives into a bag, he drags it over his shoulder before closing the trunk. “He’s got no leverage to sell us out and I can take care of myself.” Turning, he meets Ajay in the entrance to the alley. “Let's get this show on the road.”

“You’ll have twenty-four hours.” Ajay waves a hand dismissively. The graffiti in front of them glows and swirls as Ajay drags Sam forward and through the rift. “First stop, Purgatory.”

Sam retches when they touch down, a jolt of disorientation sending him to his knees. It’s almost like being dragged along when Cas takes flight, but much worse.

“The rift to Hell is that way,” Ajay points. “In the center of three boulders. Remember, twenty-four hours. Take longer than that, you’re on your own.”

“Three boulders. That’s what you’re giving me?” Sam gestures around, the regular outcroppings in all configurations.

“Three rocks that look like a pussy,” Ajay shoots back, leaning against a tree and crossing his arms.

Shaking his head, Sam sets a countdown on his watch and heads off in the direction indicated. When he looks back a few minutes later, Ajay is gone.

Something rustles in the undergrowth to either side of him, and he can feel something watching him, but everything stays hidden. Watching, evaluating. What was it that Dean had said? Three-sixty combat most of the time.

He moves as fast as he can, but there’s something deeply unsettling about being stalked through Purgatory, invisible foes following him only a few feet away, but not daring to come into the open. Pausing, he counts five, six shadows that move beyond him, circling him, before fading away into the eternal twilight.

Glancing around, Sam shakes his head and hurries onward. Hours have passed already, and he needs to keep moving.

The outcropping looming above him glows red where two of the rocks meet. He can’t see a third rock from this angle, but this has to be what Ajay was talking about. Climbing the rock face, there’s a valley between the two massive boulders that form the outcropping. A third one, smaller, but bigger than he can comfortably move, balances between them, overhanging the person sized opening between them.

This is where the breeze is coming from, Sam realizes. It’s not wind at all, but Hell vacuuming in anything it can.

Taking a deep breath, Sam shoves his machete back into its sheath and crouches down. Getting back out might be hard-- this is a straight drop-- but he’ll worry about that later.

Sitting on the edge, he briefly hopes for some sort of guidance before pushing off like he was jumping into the pool.

* * *

The walls of the alley glow brightly, forcing Dean to slam his eyes shut. When he opens them again, the glow-- and Sam-- are gone. He paces around the alley and then hits up a bar down the street for a while. Twenty-four hours, Ajay said, and meant every second.

He heads back to the car after only a couple of drinks. Ajay’s taxi is where they left it, blocking the entrance to the alley. Nothing has changed over the past couple of hours-- other than full dark falling-- but something is off.

Slowly, cautiously, he pulls his pistol from the back of his jeans. The taxi sits in shadow, only the street lights from halfway down the block and the neon across the street providing any light at all. A deeper shadow hides the driver’s seat, an abandoned piece of pizza on the dash. Sucking in a breath, Dean wrenches open the driver’s door and watches Ajay’s body slump against the wheel.

There’s not enough light to see exactly what happened, but it’s not hard to figure out someone took exception to Ajay’s smuggling.

Dean locks away the part of him that’s trying to panic and retreats to the Impala. He stares at the taxi before pulling his phone out of his pocket.

It takes a long moment before he can force himself to press the call button.

“Didn’t expect to hear from you again,” Benny drawls. “Your brother decide that maybe I’m not so bad after all?”

Dean closes his eyes, runs a hand through his hair. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“Dean, brotha?”

“Think you can get to Kansas City?” Swallowing the panic back, Dean shakes his head. “I owe you a cup of coffee.”

Benny is silent for a long moment, enough that Dean starts to think that the call dropped. “By morning, yeah. You gonna tell me what this is all about?”

“I fucked up.” Dean barks out a laugh. “Nothing much new there, right? Details can wait until that cup of coffee.”

“Alright, brother. I’ll hold you to that.”

Dean collapses forward, holding onto the steering wheel like a lifeline. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Benny says darkly before hanging up.

He knows he looks like crap-- exhausted and reeking of car and fear sweat-- but eating and coffee will help, so he camps out at a nearby Denny’s. The waitress comes around a bit more often after he finishes the burger and stops growling quite so much. He pulls out his journal after he finishes eating, spends some time updating it.

Anything to keep himself occupied

A body slides into the booth across from him around the same time the bar crowds start showing up, steals a couple of fries while waiting on him to look up. “You don’t look too hot, Winchester.”

“Meg,” Dean growls, reaching for the flask in his pocket. Of course she shows up when Sam’s got the demon knife.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” she sneers. “I come in peace.”

“Right.” Glancing around the moderately busy diner, he slides his hand off the holy water. “Thought Crowley had you under his thumb.”

“Yeah, he did. Real nice job rescuing your allies, by the way. That year of being under Crowley’s knife was just _awesome_.”

“Bite me.” He pulls his fries away from her, glaring at her extended hand. “We had our own problems.”

“So I’ve heard.” Turning, she stretches her legs out across the bench, leaning against the wall. “What’s the plan, Dean-o? We just hanging out in a diner all night for a reason or?” She looks around. “Where’s Sam?”

“Freeing an innocent soul from Hell.” Dean rolls his eyes. “The rest of it’s none of your business. Why are you here, Meg?”

“Clarence rescued me, looking for something else. Said you’d keep me safe while I got my feet back under me.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” He snorts. “Awesome. Protecting a demon.”

“This ain’t no picnic for me either, douche wheel. My position has gone from cold to absolutely frozen. I need friends, and you’re top dog right now.”

“Hold hands again, keep on skipping towards that cliff?”

“You got a better plan, I’m all ears. But in the meantime, shove it.”

“This is pretty dumb, even for you.” Dean wraps his hands around his cup of coffee, keeping one eye on Meg and the other on the other folks in the diner. “How’d you even find me?”

“Castiel was your boyfriend first. Figured you’d actually talk to each other.”

Dean can’t stop the way his jaw and hands tighten in remembered pain even as he forces his face to be impassive. “‘S not my boyfriend, and no. Not for a while.” Mirroring her, he slides to the wall and leans against it. He wants to close his eyes and get some rest, but there’s too much going on to risk it.

“Freeing an innocent soul from Hell,” Meg ponders. “I wonder what sort of spell requires that.”

“I ain’t gonna tell you. Get out of here. I don’t care what Cas told you, I’m not gonna babysit your ass.” She looks over, all wide-eyed and trembling lips, and it shouldn’t fucking work, except it does. “Goddammit. Fine. Stick around if you want. But let’s get something straight: you screw me? You die.”

Meg rolls her eyes and orders a cup of coffee the next time the waitress comes by, settling in to wait out the night with him. He’s not sure why she does-- it’s not like they’re friends, even after that thing back at Roman, Inc last summer-- but it is nice to have company while waiting for Benny, even if it is silent and sarcastic in turns.

Benny shows up at around four, still wide awake. He doesn’t look great-- worn down and ill fed-- but his face lights up when he sees Dean across the parking lot. Dean meets him halfway in a backslapping hug that brings him more relief than he deserves.

He does brief, carefully edited, introductions before tossing Benny a blood bag and settling against Benny’s truck.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you didn’t drag me here to feed me,” Benny says, breaking the seal on the bag.

“I need a favor, one I’m never gonna be able to repay,” Dean says quietly, watching Meg paint her nails in the streetlights.

“Let’s hear it then.”

Dean lays out all of it. Benny deserves at least that much given what Dean’s asking. “He’s my little brother, man.”

Benny blows out a breath beside him, “Wow, when Dean Winchester asks for a favor, he does _not_ fuck around.”

“I wouldn’t ask all if I could come up with another way.”

“Nah, brother. I get that much.” Benny’s eyes flick towards Meg, “And she can’t help?”

“Even if I could trust her, she’s a demon. To the basement, for sure. Not so sure about Purgatory.” Dean paces around the car a couple of times. “Sending you back, hell, sending you away, last thing I ever wanted. But you’ve got access to the place.”

For the first time, Dean sees a flash of irritation underneath Benny’s normal calm. “Sure. But you’re still asking. Jesus, man, two months ago, Sam was trying to kill me, then you cut off all contact.”

The words hit like a blow-- it would hurt less if Benny punched him. He’s been a shit friend. Steeling himself, he meets Benny’s eyes. “Yeah. I’m still asking.” It’s not fair, or kind, or anything else. It’s a bullshit choice and he knows it.

Benny sighs and turns away for a moment, watching the early shift show up at one of the manufacturing facilities walk around. “Alright.” His eyes are bleak when he turns back around. “Not like I’ve been doing so good topside anyway.”

“Benny...”

“Don’t worry about it, Winchester. You don’t need to hear about my problems. Just need to get my head on straight.”

Dean frowns. “I’ll meet you at the exit point. Then we’ll get that cup of coffee.”

“Sure thing, Chief.”

They walk back to the alley in silence, Meg a trailing shadow behind them until she finds something else to occupy her. Dean didn’t really want her around for this anyway.

Benny jerks him into a kiss once they’re in the back of the alley. Dean goes willingly, crashing them both into the wall. It’s harsh and silent and lasts bare seconds before Benny is pushing him away.

Benny groans quietly, thumping his head against the brick. “Fuck, that was a stupid idea.” Slowly, laboriously, he drops to his knees facing the wall. “Make it clean, brother.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, pulling his machete out of its sheath.

“Nah,” Benny disagrees. “We knew what this was.” He waits a heartbeat. “C’mon now, do it!”

Dean’s arm jerks across, the machete cleaving through flesh and bone. Benny’s head lands on the concrete with a wet thud and Dean flinches as it rolls, fetching up against a worn out tire.

* * *

With a jerk, the orientation changes, so instead of squeezing through a tiny crevice, Sam is climbing upwards. The wind tears at his grip on the rock walls, until he finally just wedges his feet against the walls and shuffles his way upwards towards freedom.

“Holy hell, boy, that’s a hell of a climb,” Bobby puffs once they’re clear of the rocks and safe on the ground.

Sam nods sharply, watching the forest around them. “Guess they don’t want to encourage tourists.” He takes a moment to get his bearings before heading back towards the clearing where they’re supposed to meet Ajay. “Not sure why’d anyone would go to Hell for a vacation, but--” he shrugs.

“Easier access topside,” Bobby points out, taking the machete that Sam hands him. “You said Dean spent a year here? Jesus.”

Sam shrugs. “Said it was twenty-four, seven combat. No rest, no peace…”

“Must have been rough on you too, trying to get him back.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking.

“Sam, you _did_ try to get him back, right?”

“We had an agreement. No searching for each other. So I didn’t.”

“Don’t you tell me about that. I know that agreement. Hell, I _taught_ you that agreement. It’s a non-agreement!” Bobby fumes next to him for a while, muttering quietly to himself.

Sam stays silent, listening for anything hunting them. The creatures stalking them circle around, waiting for a signal he can’t see yet.

Abruptly, the thing to their left lets out a howl, startling Sam and Bobby into a mad dash for safety. Sprinting blindly through the trees, Sam tries to avoid six-inch thorns that have sprouted from no where, pushing them further off course.

Sam skids to a stop when he sees the wolf shape in front of him. It lunges when he gets too close. Sam twists out of the way, brings the knife down to sever its spine. It dies, slumping to the ground.

Spinning around, Sam leaps over a second body to reach Bobby and stand back to back. Another wolf-thing swings down from the trees, jumping at them from the nearest branch. Ducking, Sam lets it go flying over his head before bringing his machete back around to chop at its head.

“What the hell are these things?” Bobby yells over the barks and yelps.

“Dean called ‘em gorilla-wolves--” Sam cuts off as a wolf goes flying over their heads, landing against a tree with a crack before falling limply to the ground.

The other wolves howl, scrambling up and away among the tree limbs.

“That’d be the gorilla part,” Bobby says quietly, turning to face the direction of whatever sent it flying.

Sam nods, watching for anything else that may be approaching.

Benny steps out of the shadows a few seconds later, melting into place like he’d been there the entire time. “Heya, Sam.”

“Benny,” Sam says stiffly. “What are you doing here?”

Benny laughs bitterly. “Saving your hide, what’s it look like?” He stretches his neck, fangs glinting in the light. “Dean sent me. Seems your ride home got himself killed.”

“Vampire,” Bobby hisses beside Sam, changing his grip on his machete and starting towards Benny.

“Bobby, wait!” Sam grabs hold of Bobby’s arm, holding him back. “He’s a buddy of Dean’s.”

“My Dean?” Bobby shakes his head. “A friggin’ vampire? Have you two lost your fucking minds? You’re trusting _him_?”

“Must be a family trait.” Benny rolls his eyes and gestures. “Any time you’re ready to head towards the exit.” He marches off without another word.

Bobby grabs Sams arm. “You’re _not_ trusting him.”

“Dammit, Bobby. Benny’s the only reason I got Dean back. I don’t like him, but for this? Yeah, I’m trusting him.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me that you’re trusting demons again, or the angels have pulled their heads out of their collective asses.”

Sam’s wince must be more obvious than he thinks, because Bobby hones in on it immediately. “What are they doing?”

“Fuck if I know. It’s all a mess.” Glancing up, he follows Benny, dragging Bobby along with him.

They’ve been hiking for a couple hours-- apparently the exit is further away than Sam thought-- when the forest goes dead silent. Benny pauses for a split second, poised to run, before breathing out, “Demons.”

“What do you mean demons?” Bobby asks crankily.

“I _mean_ , there are demons in Purgatory and I’m guessing they either want you or want out.”

Whoever is following them makes better time, flushing more monsters ahead. They ignore Sam’s little group, but that’s not going to last forever.

They’re almost there when the demons catch up. Sam catches one unawares with the demon killing knife while Bobby spits out an exorcism for the other. It gives them some breathing room anyway, scaring away most of the monsters that have been stalking them.

Staring at the cliff side, blue portal open at the top, Sam closes his eyes. They’re almost there, just gotta finish.

“Alright, Bobby, you remember the spell?” Sam rolls his sleeve up, knife poised over his arm.

“Assuming it works,” Bobby says darkly, glaring at Benny.

Benny ignores him, tightening his grip on his own knife and watching the forest surrounding them.

It goes off without a hitch, Bobby-- or his soul-- pouring into Sam’s arm and sealing itself up. Sam gasps at the feeling, holding his breath against the not-pain. Once Bobby’s settled a bit, Sam flips the knife hilt towards Benny. “Okay, your turn.”

Benny snorts, hefting his knife and flinging it over Sam’s shoulder. The yelp and thud behind him tells Sam all he really needs to know. “No time. The demons are gone, but--”

The other vampires attack before he can finish.

“Sam, go!” Benny bellows just before he’s buried under three vampires.

Scrambling up the hill, Sam can only risk a couple glances back. More and more monsters are converging on Benny at the bottom of the hill, blocking him from view.

The jump into the portal is something of a relief, blue light pulsing with his heart as he moves from one plane of reality to another.

Dean is waiting for him when he lands in a different, calmer, forest, passing Sam a bottle of water before either of them say a word.

“Purgatory, right?” Dean sighs. “You get ‘em?”

“Only Bobby.”

“What? What about--”

Sam shakes his head, “I tried. We got ambushed--” Sam winces when Bobby twists painfully. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s finish.” Slicing into his arm, Sam recites the other half of the spell. Orange and yellow light spills out, reforming into Bobby.

“Friggin’ idjits,” Bobby mutters, looking at them both. “See ya ‘round.” Stepping forward, he dissolves back into smoke and starts streaming upwards. He makes it about twenty feet before starting to pool, like he’s hit a ceiling.

“What the--” Dean starts before he gets cut off.

“Hello, boys.”

Spinning around, Sam glares at Crowley. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Crowley lazily looks up. “Hmm. Bobby Singer. I’d know that soul anywhere.” Meeting Sam’s eyes, he runs his thumb over his fingernails. “The hell I’m doing is my business. And dear Robert is part of it.”

“He doesn’t belong in Hell, you can’t keep him,” Dean insists.

“I can do whatever I want. I’m the King.”

“You can do whatever you want _in Hell_ , Crowley,” A cool voice says from behind them. “Not on Earth, and certainly not with a soul that does not belong to you.”

“Bobby Singer is so far from an untarnished soul, I don’t even know where to start. And that’s _before_ we take into consideration everything he did as a hunter. And the deal he made for the use of his legs. From where I stand, even Hell is too good for him.”

Sam grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him out of the center of the clearing. The woman behind them-- wearing a dark gray pant suit, must be an angel-- flashes something that could be a smile towards them. It doesn’t fit on her face, too sharp.

“Let me see if I’m interpreting this situation correctly. Samuel Winchester freed an innocent soul from Hell, at great personal risk, and you are trying to reclaim that soul?” She flicks a glance upward, towards the red-orange cloud. Immediately, angelic blue starts shooting through it, spreading out.

“You do not want to get involved with these two, Naomi,” Crowley warns. “Before they’re through, everything we’ve worked toward will be destroyed.”

Naomi shrugs elegantly. “I’ll take my chances.”

The blue light that was Bobby flickers and shoots upwards before disappearing.

“Bureaucrat,” Crowley sneers. “You’re outside your weight class.”

“Do _not_ call me that,” Naomi snaps, her eyes starting to glow.

Sam meets Dean’s eyes and they both ease further into the trees and bushes surrounding the clearing.

Crowley takes a step forward, facing off against Naomi more squarely. They stare intently at each other for a few moments before Crowley snaps his fingers and disappears.

Naomi doesn’t sag, although Sam thinks anyone else would have. Instead, she turns to face their hiding place in the trees. “Sam, Dean. We need to talk.”

Dean leans over, whispering, “Finish the trial.” Without waiting for a response, Dean straightens his jacket and slides into the clearing.

Shakily, Sam nods, pulling the spell out of his jacket pocket.

Pain sears through him as he finishes the incantation, knocking him to his knees and nearly face planting in the dirt. Bracing himself with one hand, Sam locks his jaw against the scream trying to erupt.

* * *

Clamping down on his anger and worry, Dean pushes it to the back of his mind. There’s no time for that right now, not when he’s got an angel in front of him powerful enough to make Crowley run.

“Dean,” she inclines her head. “Where’s Sam?”

“He’s busy,” he grinds out, trying to find the trap. There’s _always_ a trap.

“You can trust me, Dean. I mean you no harm.”

Raising an eyebrow, Dean sticks his hands in his pockets. “Right. You have no skin in this game and angels are never dicks.”

Naomi purses her lips. “I grant you have very little cause to trust me. However, we’re working towards the same end here. The tablets, Dean. That’s all I want. They’re too powerful for humanity to have unlimited access.”

“We’ll take our chances, thanks.”

“Dean Winchester, do _not_ be flippant with me. I can sense Castiel’s grace all over you and yet, he has not completed his orders.”

Dean’s hands fall to his sides, hands clenching. “You’re the one handing out orders now?”

“I’m the one bringing order back to Heaven, yes.”

Dean jerks forward two steps and plows his fist into her face. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but the tiny moment of surprise that crosses her face makes it worth it.

“You _maggot_.” Naomi’s eyes harden and the pleasantness drops like it never existed.

“Heard it all before,” Dean cuts her off. “You want to bring order to Heaven? Go for it. But keep your hands off my fucking family.”

Naomi stares at him for a long moment before flapping off to do whatever.


	7. Chapter 7

Her head is completely free, sending whispers and tendrils across Hell. She draws dozens of demons to her over days and weeks, insects circling a light that promises ecstasy and oblivion. Laughing, she laps up their blood, sucking knowledge from their marrow before discarding the remains.

Years pass before a demon worthy of the name approaches. Young enough to be malleable, old enough to be wary crossing the pitted ice. Small, vaguely feline, the demon steps carefully, watching every hole for a long time before investigating any.

A shock ripples through Hell, another quake sending the young demon careening across the ice and into a broken hollow. Abaddon rips a wingtip from the ice with a scream, impaling the demon on a claw, and dragging it back to the mound that traps her shoulders.

The demon freezes in terror for the briefest moment before forcing itself up and off the claw. Falling back to the ice, it shakes itself roughly before trotting onward towards Abaddon. Bold, this one, and reckless.

The demon is silent when it catches sight of Abaddon’s face, a shudder running through it before bowing deeply. “My Queen…”

Finally, a demon who knows respect. Abaddon pushes part of herself towards the demon, enveloping it and pulling it into herself.

Oh, this one is _perfect_.

* * *

Patrick’s screams echo though Crowley’s lab on Earth. He can tell Crowley nothing-- he’s long past sanity even if he knew anything of use-- but reaching in and _twisting_ hasn’t lost its appeal yet.

Crowley does it again, trying to see if he can get the harmonics just… right… The building shakes with the force of the screams, or maybe an earthquake. Not that it matters, the knocking at the door ruins it all.

Juliet growls quietly at the door, looking up from the leg she’s been gnawing on for hours. Rolling his eyes, Crowley wipes his hand on his apron. “Enter.”

Guthrie slides in, sidestepping past Juliet and bowing. “There have been… disturbances, Sire. Sufficient to garner attention.” He shuffles in place, not quite meeting Crowley’s eyes. To his credit, he doesn’t look at Patrick-- still moaning-- either.

“Oh, alright,” Crowley snaps. Grabbing an angel blade off the table, he embeds it into Patrick’s chest, pausing to watch the light show play out in his meatsuit. It’s nowhere near what he’d planned, but Juliet will enjoy the corpse. “Report.”

Guthrie nods. “There are three areas of concern. The first is, more than likely, related to the others, but at this time I cannot say. The others… are best left for you, Sire.”

Crowley waves his hand to get on with it, pouring himself a glass of scotch.

“As you know, we sent several of the… more replaceable demons to survey the areas around the Cage. Only one has reported back and he was chastised-- strongly-- for not completing his task.”

“He didn’t want to go, fucked off, and then reported back thinking no one would notice?”

“Precisely.”

“Treason, dereliction of duty, whatever. Toss him back on the rack, see if Elisabet can do something with him. If nothing else, I could use a new rug.”

“Of course.” Guthrie nods and makes a note. “The Winchesters. We still have very little information on what they’re hoping to accomplish, however, at this point, I believe we can safely assume it is a ritual of some sort.”

Crowley takes another sip of his drink, waiting.

“Anything new will be brought immediately to my, and subsequently, your attention, of course.”

“Until I know what the two nightmares are up to, nothing demonic goes near them. Cancel the bounties on their heads, pull every demon back to Hell. I’m the only one who goes near them.”

“Yes, sir.” Guthrie inhales, glancing down at his notes. “The… quakes, for lack of a better term, appear to be related to what the Winchesters are doing. Most areas of Hell are stable with no damage. Some of the deeper areas though, it is possible they have sustained damage and the surveys have not discovered this.”

Crowley thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “It won’t collapse out from under us. Keep an eye on it.”

“Yes, Sire.” Guthrie bows his way back out of the lab, nearly tripping over Juliet.

Another demon rushes in before Crowley can even turn back to the corpse on his table, squeaking when Juliet snaps at her. “Sire! One of the Winchesters has been found!”

“I was unaware we had lost them,” Crowley drawls.

“Henry,” she blurts out. “The grandfather.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “And just how is Henry Winchester alive and well on Earth? He was presumed dead decades ago.”

“Our agent hasn’t been able to discover the exact mechanism, but the witches I consulted with--”

“You did what?” Crowley flings her against the wall, pinning her in place. “Were my orders not completely clear? _Everything_ regarding those flannel nightmares comes to me first!”

She swallows frantically. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Of course, sir.”

“These so called experts of yours-- what did they have to say?”

“Theoretically, such a spell is possible-- it would draw on the power of his soul, and isn’t controllable, however, it’s possible that was a bonus in his case.”

Leaving her pinned in place, Crowley turns his back on her, fetching his tumbler of scotch and thinking through his options. He needs the man under his control-- willingly or not-- before the wonder twins complete their plan. Family has always been their weak spot. “You know where he is?”

“Yes, sir. Do you want me to fetch him?”

“Not immediately,” Crowley decides. “There’s some set dressing I need to do first.”

“Sir?”

“Follow him, make friends with him.” He waves his hand, releasing her. “Report immediately if he has any contact with Sam or Dean. Someone will tell you when you should bring him to me.”

“Make… friends with him?”

“Yes. Get him to trust you. When we’re ready, you’ll have to push him off, but we’ll take care of that when we get there.”

“How?”

“The same way any decent con artist does, I would presume. Do I need to do your job in addition to mine?” He asks dangerously.

She bows quickly, scurrying from the room. Juliet growls and follows her, nipping at her heels.

* * *

Sam’s ears are still ringing with the aftermath of the trial when they reach the car. Staggering through the woods, following the poorly marked trail, the only difference between the trail and the parking lot is the low gleam of the Impala in the light of Dean’s flashlight.

Shivering, Sam looks around, trying to get a fix on where they are while Dean digs for the car keys. The metal of the Impala is freezing against his back, but hiking several miles has done him no favors after twenty-four hours in Purgatory and Hell. “Why can’t it open up someplace warm,” he whines, hoping Dean can hear him.

Dean says something, a low drone that Sam almost catches, before the Impala door creaks open.

Twisting around, Sam heads for the passenger seat before freezing. “Demon!” Scrabbling for the demon knife, he backs away from the car, hoping to find a tree to have at his back.

Meg smirks out the back window, saying something he can’t make out in the dim light of the Impala, and raising her hands-- bound in silver handcuffs. Markings decorate both bracelets, not that he can decipher them at the moment, but--

Breathing out, Sam glances over at Dean who mimes putting down the knife, exaggerating his movements like Sam is an idiot. Slowly, Sam does, sliding into the passenger seat and holding it in his lap.

Despite not knowing why the fuck Meg is in their backseat, Sam dozes off quickly, almost before Dean hits the main roads. He fights his way back to consciousness when the Impala jerks to a stop, the driver’s door popping open and Dean jumping out.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Meg says from the backseat.

Sam jumps, twisting around to look at her. “What the fuck are you doing here, Meg? Not enough puppies to torture or whatever?”

She huffs. “Your brother is the one who goes in for torture, Sammy, not me. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, if the occasion calls for it, but I’m long past torturing for the hell of it.”

“That doesn’t tell me--”

“Clarence did me a solid. Then did me another and sent me your way. I was hoping for actual _friends_ , but you idiots are the next best thing.”

“We, uh, thought you were dead,” he stammers, finally getting a good look at her in the parking lot lights. “What’d you do to your hair?” he asks stupidly.

“Did you take idiot pills? I did nothing. Crowley-- I’m gonna burn that limey fuck.” She sighs before turning to look at him. “Anyway, from the rumors I heard, you thought everyone was dead. You hit a dog and stopped. Why?”

“It was… something.”

Dean slides back into the car, the room key dangling from one finger, and effectively ends the conversation.

The room is nothing spectacular-- double beds and boring art on the walls-- but it’s been updated at some point in the last twenty years which puts it a step above some of the places they stay. Sam barely manages to stay awake long enough to shower before crashing back out.

Dean’s phone rings just after dawn, waking them all up. “‘Lo?” Dean’s groping for a pen within moments. “Hold on, they’re where?... Alright, Jody. We’re in Maine, but we’ll get there as soon as we can. Yeah. Can you… Okay, thanks.”

Sam sits up, watching as Dean scrambles to get up. “What’s up?”

“That was Jody,” Dean says unnecessarily. “Had a case come across the wire, thought it was up our alley.”

“And?”

Dean winces. “Five dead bodies in the space of a week. Eyes burnt out, marks on hands and feet, and… insides are slop.”

“Sounds like angel kills. Shit.”

“Pretty much,” Dean huffs. “On the road in thirty.” Before Sam can respond, he’s grabbed his bag and is in the bathroom.

Sam meets Meg’s eyes where she’s sitting at the table, still handcuffed. “Any ideas?”

“Sure, lots. But you’re not gonna like them.” She waggles her fingers before wrapping her hands around a cup of coffee that she got from somewhere. “You know me and angels. I do my damndest to stay far far away.”

“Great.” Sam looks at the closed bathroom door before shaking his head.

* * *

The drive should take twenty-five hours. Dean cuts it down to nineteen, barely stopping for gas, never stopping for anything else. He knows…

There’s lots of reasons for angels showing up to wipe out a chunk of a town’s population. Some of them might even be good ones-- He can’t come up with any, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. There are fewer that explain why the _fuck_ a man matching Cas’s description is a person of interest.

All he can hear is Jody’s voice from this morning, repeating over and over again what she’d caught over the wire.

“Internal burns... dark haired man… trench coat…”

At best, Cas is hunting demons and being uncharacteristically messy. At worst… Robo-Cas is back in the building and killing his way to whatever the juicy prize at the center is.

It’s the second day in a row they roll up to a no name motel at fuck you o’clock in the morning. Sam takes one look at him-- bloodshot eyes, nerves shot-- and climbs out to get them a room.

Dean checks his email while they wait, ignoring Meg in the backseat as thoroughly as he has all day. She’s risking a lot just being near them, he gets that, but he doesn’t know what to _do_ with her. They’d talked on their way to Maine, and he’d gotten some of the story out of her, but not enough to trust her.

Even if she isn’t lying, Cas really did break her out of some demonic holding cell and send her their way, what the hell do they do with her? They don’t need a pet demon and he’s _not_ taking her back to the Bunker.

Sam opens the door to their room with unabashed glee, ushering them in with a suspicious grin. Dean eyeballs the darkness beyond before reaching for the light.

“Oh, my god,” slips out before he can control his mouth.

“You boys sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

Dean winces, but has to agree.

Sam shelled out the money for a decent room this time, two queens and a recliner, even a small kitchenette in the corner. They’d grown up in this sort of place. But the decor…

It looks like those fucking Precious Moments angel things threw up in here. Every inch of the place is covered with the creepy little fuckers, starting with a mural on the far wall that welcomes them to their ‘Heavenly Home’-- because that’s not ominous as fuck-- and ending with a screen made of dozens of the figurines strung on poles. Even the bedspreads get in on the action, pastoral sheep frolicing over rainbows and fucking arks.

Dean wants to salt and burn the entire place just on sheer principle. “No.”

“You picked the place, Dean. Not me,” Sam shoots back, dropping his bag on the bed nearest the door. “Shut up and let me get some sleep.” Sam doesn’t even bother pulling his shoes off, just shrugs his jacket off and falls face first into the pillow. He’s snoring within seconds.

“You have got--” Indignantly, he turns to face Meg, hoping she’s on his side.

She’s already curling up in the recliner, a blanket from the closet pulled over her. “You did pick it, Dean-o. Thought you’d be used to angel cum by now.”

“It’s not… I’m not…” he sputters out before she rolls her eyes.

“You’re _not_ fucking Clarence? Huh. Wouldn’t have called that one last spring.” She snorts, contorting herself so she can kick out the foot rest. “Unless he’s fucking you.” She tilts her head, looking at him closely. “Whatever. Get the lights.”

Blankly, he reaches over and flips the switch, plunging the room into darkness. It takes a very long time to wind down enough to sleep, even when he turns off his phone and simply lies there in the dark. Meg’s comments keep running through his head, overlapping the details from the police report Jody sent and eventually memories of Benny from Purgatory.

When Sam’s alarm goes off in the morning, Dean doesn’t feel like he’s slept at all. He grunts when Sam slaps his foot, burrowing further under the pillow to avoid the morning sun. Dean must doze back off, because the next time Sam wakes him, he’s already got his suit on and a cup of coffee in each hand.

“Wha’ time iz’t?”

“Nearly eight. C’mon, get a move on.”

The room is even worse in daylight. The little fuckers are even in the bathroom, staring up at him from the toilet seat before he pisses and hops in the shower. Dean shudders at all the beady blue eyes watching him before digging through his bag and getting dressed.

Sticking his head back into the room, Dean grabs his coffee and downs half of it before buttoning up his shirt. “Did you have a chance to read over what Jody sent, work out a game plan?”

“Yeah. First stop the morgue, then interviewing survivors.”

Dean winces, finishing his coffee and knotting his tie. Going to the morgue first thing in the morning is never a good time. Pausing in front of the recliner, he looks down at Meg. “You want to come along or hang out here?”

She shrugs, lifting her hands on top of the blanket. “Ward the place, take the handcuffs off, and I swear I’ll just sit here and watch daytime TV.”

Dean glances at Sam to see what he thinks, gets a shrug in return. “Do _not_ make me regret doing this,” he warns, pulling out his keys and unlocking her.

Meg smiles sweetly-- too sweetly-- and nods. “I would never.”

Yep, she’s planning something. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you’re letting me loose anyway. I’ve not killed you over the past couple of days, what’s trusting me one more day going to do?”

“Oh yeah, that’s reassuring.”

The morgue is a bust-- the coroner can’t tell them anything they didn’t already know-- and the first couple of interviews are the same.

Wendy Rice constitutes their first real lead, and their first sign that whatever was happening here, it’s over.

“Ann contacted you about your research into the history of the town?” Sam asks quietly, perched on the edge of the couch.

“Her and a couple others. It’s weird, I’ve been working on this for years with no one but my adviser caring and then three people in a week?” Wendy shakes her curler-adorned head. “Made me nervous, so I started insisting that we meet in public.”

“Yeah, that was probably a good idea,” Dean agrees. “Did Ann say what she was looking for at all?”

“An old orchard. The river flooded back at the turn of the century and the entire town moved with it. Unfortunately, all the plat maps from the town’s founding were damaged. Part of my dissertation is using local archaeology to rediscover the original layout.” Wendy launches into a detailed description of what exactly she’s doing that Dean follows exactly none of.

Sam keeps her going, asking nerdy questions while Dean excuses himself to investigate the rest of the house.

Running over everything they know, Dean pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher in Wendy’s fridge before a familiar rustle has him spinning around. “Cas?”

“Dean. What are you doing here?” Cas staggers, falling against the counter. “You shouldn’t…”

“I shouldn’t what? My _job_? Or did you forget that while you were off beating the shit out of people.”

“Dean, I…” Cas shakes himself, pushing upright. “I need to talk to Wendy. The orchard, it might hide the tablet. I must retrieve it.”

“Hold on a minute!” Dean follows Cas as he marches into the living room. “Cas, will you… Dammit!” He grabs Cas’s shoulder and spins him around. “You’re not going anywhere near civilians until you tell me what the fucking hell is going on!”

“I have to find the orchard,” Cas says bleakly. “And what it hides. I can’t allow anything stand in my way. Not even you.”

Startled, Dean lets go, taking a step backwards. “Will you use your fucking words? Why _this_ orchard?”

“ _I can’t tell you._ My orders--” Cas breaks off and pushes past him, past Sam, before stopping in front of Wendy. “My apologies.” He touches Wendy’s forehead with two fingers. A bright light shines for a split second before it goes dark and Wendy slumps in her chair. “She will have a headache when she wakes. See to her comfort.” Cas meets Dean’s eyes for a moment before disappearing.

Dean stares at the blank spot Cas was for a long moment before turning to face Sam. “What the fuck?”

“I don’t know, man. That was weird, even for Cas.”

“No shit.” Dean helps Sam lay Wendy out on the couch, a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the coffee table, before they start looking through her research.

“Downey and Bond streets,” Sam says after a few minutes. “It almost has to be there-- the orchard was torn out between floods and then the town moved.”

“Yeah, but what are we looking for? Cas said something about the tablet but that--”

“Call Meg. Whatever this is, she knows more than she’s saying.”

Tossing Sam the keys, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Meg’s number.

It goes to voicemail.

“Sam, drive faster.” Dean hits redial, hoping that Meg just missed the call.

“We’re in town, I can’t just…” Sam glances over before pressing harder on the gas. “She’s not answering.”

The call goes to voicemail again. Dean leaves a blistering message, primarily concerned with her parentage, before hanging up and tossing his phone on the dash. “No, she’s not fucking answering. Fuck!”

The tires kick up gravel as Sam swings the car to a stop in front of the remains of a building. It wasn’t in good shape before… whatever… happened, but now… The thin wooden door hangs from one hinge, the wood shattered near the handle, forced open. The dark room beyond-- Dean can’t tell exactly what it was, maybe a hardware store-- was coated in a thick layer of dust, but someone has utterly destroyed the place, knocking over entire shelves dominoes-style, slinging bins of nails around and scattering them so the footing is uneven.

A path of destruction lead through the building and basement, ending in a giant hole broken through the brickwork. Either everyone’s already been and gone or they’re still in there.

The vault beyond the wall is filled to the brim with anything he can think of. Jars and statues, weapons of dubious use, a few boxes that Dean can’t identify, all of it coated in a thick layer of dust and spider webs.

Someone is fighting inside, steel striking against steel, ringing twice before it cuts off abruptly.

Dean doesn’t bother waiting for Sam, jumping through the hole. He kicks up decades worth of dirt, blinding him, but he ignores it. There’s no time, he has to get to Cas, figure out what the hell is going on.

Rounding the last corner, Dean stumbles to a stop, trying to figure out what he’s looking at.

Cas and Meg are frozen mid-fight like statues, Cas’s angel blade blocking an unfamiliar knife in Meg’s hand. From here, Dean can’t tell who’s winning or losing. Tearing his eyes away, he focuses on the angel standing on the other side of the center altar-looking table.

“Naomi,” Dean hisses. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Dean,” Naomi says calmly. “I’m surprised you’re here. Castiel was to keep you very far away after all.” She twitches a finger and Dean watches, horrified, as Cas is forced forward until Meg’s knife is just barely touching him. “I suppose I’ll just have to teach him again.”

“Cas didn’t call us!” Dean steps forward. “It’s not like angel kills are subtle!” He can’t see Cas’s face, can’t tell if he’s awake in there. Hell, right now, he can’t even tell if that knife will do any more harm to Cas than run of the mill steel. “What do you want?”

Sam rushes in behind him, coughing.

Naomi glares at them both before stepping around the altar and grabbing something out of Meg’s off-hand. “The demon has no need of this. Samuel, you really should get that cough looked at.” She shudders delicately. “Would hate to see you fall apart on the finish line.”

Dean twists around to look at Sam, taking his eyes off Naomi for just a moment. It’s just a moment, but that’s all it takes for her to disappear along with the artifact.

Meg’s knife clatters to the floor, sending up sparks from the stone.

Dean rushes forward to support them both as they sag, getting between them so they can’t accidentally stab each other while coming back to their senses. “Cas? Meg? You two alright?”

Cas groans against him, barely audible over Sam’s continued coughing. “Dean? Why are you here?”

Dean snorts. “Saving your ass, looks like. What the hell were you thinking, man? Doing this by yourself.”

“I was thinking that I don’t want you anywhere near Naomi.” Cas cuts himself off, looks around. “Where is she?” He pushes himself to his feet, staggering a little.

“Gone,” Sam chokes out. “Took off with whatever Meg was carrying.”

“And you--” Cas inhales. “We need to go. Now.”

“What’s the rush? What is this place?”

“This is one of Lucifer’s crypts. As soon as word gets out it has been rediscovered--” Cas looks down. “Meg, stop faking.” He kicks her leg, lightly.

“Being dead is looking more and more like a bonus,” Meg snarls, leaning away from Dean. “I can’t believe you fuckers lead Naomi here.” Climbing to her feet, she levels a glare them.

Sam spits something into a tissue that he pulls out of his pocket. Looking around, he shakes his head. “There’s no way we can empty this before the angels get back. Anything we need to make sure they don’t get their hands on?”

“Besides what has already been taken? No. The rest of this is worthless.”

Dean’s not supposed to notice the look between Cas and Meg, he sure, nor the abortive movement Cas makes towards his pocket before he turns towards the entrance.

* * *

Sam can’t quit coughing. He knows it’s just the dust, something caught funny, but Naomi’s words are chilling. What if he’s wrong. What if there is something wrong, the ringing and everything else might be permanent.

Kevin hasn’t said anything about side effects but… He might not know. It might not be listed at all-- anything that’s this hard to read isn’t meant for humans to undertake anyway. And Cas hasn’t exactly been around to ask.

Dean constantly checks the mirrors on the way back to the room, making sure Cas and Meg don’t disappear, making sure they’re not being followed. It’s almost comforting. No matter what happens, Dean is still a paranoid bastard after an unexpected run-in.

Sam watches them in the rear view mirror too. Whatever the actual plan was in this town, whatever scheme they cooked up, it went wrong. He barely trusts Meg in front of him, let alone behind him when her plans go south. She might have had a change of heart when it comes to who is ruling Hell, might want no one if she can’t have Lucifer, but he doesn’t trust her. Can’t trust her.

“What the hell, you two?” Sam explodes after about five minutes of silence.

“Sam--” Cas starts before Meg cuts him off.

“Aww, Sammy, are you feeling left out?” She smiles-- slow and sultry, exactly how Ruby used to-- and leans forward enough to run her fingers along his shoulder. “Do you miss it? The plotting, the scheming? The blood and sex?”

“Enough, Meg,” Cas bites out.

Meg falls back into the seat, pouting. “Just let me out when we get to the motel. If you’ve attracted Heaven’s attention, I want no part of this. Hard enough to stay off Crowley’s radar when you’re not shining a spotlight around.”

Sam frowns, glaring out the window. “What are you planning?”

No response, both of them sitting in stony silence as Dean pulls the car into the motel parking lot.

“Okay, that’s it. I’ve had enough of this silent treatment bullshit.” Dean turns the car off and twists around in his seat. “What the fuck are you hiding? Didn’t you learn your lesson after opening Purgatory?”

More silence.

Dean bails out of the car, slamming the door behind him, walking stiffly towards the room. Sam follows him, itching to get out of his suit before Dean drags him halfway across the country in a single day again. Shower again too, if there’s time, get the dust and dirt off of him.

“I don’t…” Dean shakes his head, flings his suit jacket onto the bed before starting to roughly pull his dress shirt off. “Get changed, let’s go.”

* * *

In the space of a week, some worthless sacks of pus lost Crowley’s favorite chew toy in their scramble to get back to Hell and then he finds out someone has been killing the demons he set to look for Lucifer’s crypts?

This is unacceptable.

His temper flares when he enters the vault. There’s still plenty of valuable material here, but at least two items are missing, maybe more. He can feel the echoes of them, and the places that are missing their dust.

“Guthrie,” he calls. There’s a split second before Guthrie steps from behind the wall, already bowing. “Who reported this?”

Guthrie checks his ever present notepad before looking up. “One of the younger ones. But she’s proven herself reliable and trustworthy.”

“No connection to Moose or Squirrel?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Anything is, of course, possible, but I doubt it’s more than any other young demon.”

“I want a full report. All of it. Check who she made her original deal with, investigate them too. Everything.” Crowley looks around the room, what’s still present, “I’ll deal with this personally.”

It will take longer, if he moves everything by himself, but he doesn’t trust anyone-- not even Guthrie-- with the locations of his storage facilities.


	8. Chapter 8

The adrenaline is long gone by the time they finish changing, leaving Sam shaky and exhausted. Stumbling out to the car, he drops his bag into the trunk before noticing that Meg’s taken off. “Where’d she go?”

“She doesn’t feel safe here.” Cas rolls his eyes pointedly. “Despite my reassurances, she’s convinced you want to kill her.”

“Of course I want to kill her!” Dean grinds out behind Sam. “She’s a demon, Cas!”

“And you’re a human and I’m an angel. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Are you freaking-- We can’t trust her! Sam, tell him!”

Shaking his head and suppressing a cough, Sam pushes Cas towards the front of the car. “I want a nap. Figure your own shit out.”

Dean nods stiffly, throwing his bag into the trunk and swinging around to the driver’s seat. “Awesome.”

Sam rolls his eyes before climbing in. “You could try being less of a dick.”

“I’m being a-- Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sam leans forward to meet Dean’s gaze in the mirror, “Yeah, you’re being a dick. And you know it too.” Sitting back, he leans against the door and closes his eyes. Let Dean figure out his bullshit on his own. Hopefully, without murdering Cas in the meantime.

“You coming?” Dean calls.

The door creaks open and thuds shut while Cas tries to get comfortable in the front seat. Sam keeps his eyes closed, nothing is worth getting caught up in their pissing match.

They stay silent until they reach the interstate and Sam dozes off.

* * *

Dean waits until Sam falls asleep before pushing play on whatever tape he has in the radio, adjusting the volume until it’s loud enough to prevent easy conversation without waking Sam up.

The tail end of Heartbreaker plays before the soft crackle pop of an empty tape. Dean angrily thumps the steering wheel before reaching over to flip the tape. He doesn’t want to talk to Cas, doesn’t want to deal with whatever mess he’s gotten himself mixed up in, doesn’t want any of it.

Cas turns the volume back down as soon as Dean flips the tape, turning it quiet enough that Dean has to hear him. Every time Dean turns the volume up, Cas turns it back down, a silent squabble.

Fine. If Cas wants to talk about this, they’ll talk about it. “I can’t believe you’re making deals with demons _again_. What the hell, man?”

Cas sighs heavily beside him. “Meg wants the same thing we do: Crowley off the throne. The reasons behind it are unimportant, a disorganized Hell can only help us.”

“You’re trusting a _demon_ , Cas. Meg! She’s not on our side! She’s just looking for a chance to screw us!”

“She had that chance, when I was locked in a mental ward, having taken on Sam’s Hell trauma. She did _nothing_. What do you think she was waiting for?”

“Well, you just handed her something out of Lucifer’s vault for one. Fuck if I know what, but you ain’t that slick, stud.”

“The Seal is of no use to us on Earth and limited use to her in Hell,” Cas says firmly. “The most valuable thing in that vault was the angel tablet. Which Naomi now has.”

“So how’s that going to come back and bite us in the ass, anyway?”

Cas sighs, settling further into the seat. “It’s a tablet, I have no idea why Naomi is so intent on getting it. Without someone who can read it, it’s a very old paper weight.”

“Kevin,” Dean sighs. “He’s already stuck with us. What’s a few more years? Or, ya know, _the rest of his life_.”

Cas stares out the window at the passing trees. “There is one other, but no one has seen Metatron in centuries. He, most likely, is dead.”

“Not much can kill an angel.” Dean says slowly. “Why would he be able to read it anyway?”

“Metatron is, was, the Scribe of God,” Cas says simply. “What our Father dictated, Metatron transcribed. He had horrible handwriting.”

“Right…” Dean draws out. “Okay, level with me. If I put you in the same room as Kevin, are you going to be able to fight off your orders or whatever?

Cas doesn’t answer, looking out the window.

“Great. Awesome.” Dean presses the gas pedal a bit harder, as if he can leave all the bullshit behind in small town Missouri. “Glad we talked.”

They’re about halfway home when Dean pulls the car into a truckstop for a break. Sam and Cas follow him slowly into the diner that’s winding up the dinner rush.

“Sit anywhere you’d like, guys. I’ll be with you in a jiff.” The waiter waves them towards a few cleared tables near the kitchen.

Cas slides into the first available booth, his back to the kitchen and watching the gas station.

Sam sits across from him with a yawn and stretches his legs out. “Sorry, Dean. I’ve been stuck in the backseat all day.”

Dean frowns before sitting next to Cas. “You wanted the backseat. How is it my fault you’re cramped?”

“Shut up, jerk.”

Dean sighs, flicks his foot into Sam’s shin. “Bitch.”

The waiter-- Geoff according to his name tag-- bustles over, laying down menus and three glasses of water. “Anything else to drink tonight, fellas? I’ll give you a few minutes to look at the menus.”

Dean pushes the menu away once Geoff is gone-- he knows what he’s going to get-- and plays with his silverware while the other two look them over. “So Naomi and Heaven have the angel tablet...”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I already told you. Without Kevin or someone else who can read it, it’s a complicated rock. Unless you want to shut down Heaven as well, let Naomi have it.”

“That’s great, Cas, but she’s the one giving you orders right now. How can we even know if you actually think that? She wants it, that’s a pretty good indication she shouldn’t have it.”

“You’re right, of course. But splitting our resources is pointless, particularly since, again, _Naomi can’t do anything with it_.”

“Shutting down Heaven.” Sam leans forward. “We could do that?”

“Presumably, the angel tablet will mirror the demon tablet, and there will be a way. However, shutting down Heaven could have devastating effects.”

“Like?” Dean asks testily. “Gotta say, most of your siblings are dicks. Wouldn’t mind if they disappeared forever.”

“Everyone who dies will be trapped in the Veil.” Cas swallows. “Some of them might filter into Hell, but trapping that many in the Veil…” He trails off.

“Even if only one in ten becomes a ghost,” Sam says slowly, “We’re still talking about thousands, millions of ghosts.”

Dean takes a long drink of his water.

“Precisely. There may come a time when we need to do that. But right now, I feel safer with it in Heaven’s hands. They certainly won’t work against themselves.”

Dean makes a sharp gesture with his hand as Geoff comes back over with a coffee pot in one hand and Sam’s iced tea in the other. “Alright fellas, we’ll start with the B.F.G. over here.” He gestures towards Sam with his order pad, coyly chewing on his pen cap.

‘B.F.G.?’ Cas mouths while Sam rattles off his rabbit food order. Dean pats his leg, he’ll explain later.

Dean orders a cheeseburger and Cas gets an order of onion rings-- his standard order when he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself-- and they wait for Geoff to wander back off.

“BFG, big friendly giant,” Dean says quickly. “You gonna let him down easy, Sammy?”

“He wasn’t flirting,” Sam insists, half twisting around to see where Geoff’s disappeared to. “He was being friendly. Probably to get a better tip.”

“Yeah, the tip of your dick,” Dean snorts. “Bet his phone number is scribbled on the ticket that he slides to you.”

Sam looks thoughtful for a moment before nodding. “Sure. Laundry duty for a week?”

“You’re on ammo duty. Deal.”

Cas looks utterly confused for a moment before shaking his head. “As we were saying, the angel tablet doesn’t matter. We can’t close Heaven, the consequences are well outside of our ability to stop.”

Dean grabs a sugar packet and stirs it into his (burnt) coffee. “So, we’re back to my original question. If you and Kevin are in the same room, are you going to drag him to Heaven?”

He’s probably not supposed to notice the tiny shudder that runs through Cas, or his mouth opening and closing a couple of times while he fights with something. That’s not good. If Cas is having trouble fighting the instruction to not talk about it with them…

Cas takes a deep breath and flexes his shoulders before relaxing. “I can fight my orders. Maybe even break them if I’m prepared. I won’t allow anyone to harm Kevin.” He sucks down some of his water. “Dean, I really am sorry--”

“Stop. Don’t worry about it,” Dean cuts Cas off. “What’s done is done.”

Cas grimaces, but doesn’t say anything else.

Geoff, handily proving Dean’s point, comes back around to check on them. “Okay gentlemen, Hot Stuff. Your meals should be up in just a moment.” He winks at Sam, refilling Dean’s coffee with one hand and their waters with the other. “Anything else you might desire?”

“I… I think we’re okay,” Sam chokes out.

“I bet you’re a lot better than okay,” Geoff says, picking up the pitcher and swaying back towards the kitchen.

Dean waits for him to get out of earshot before he starts to laugh. “It’s like you’ve never flirted before.”

“Not with a guy!” Sam hisses. “Straight, remember?”

Dean waves the statement away. “Gonna be so great to not have to do laundry _or_ deal with Nathan’s moldy ass storage unit. Remember to grab some bronze buckshot this time.”

Sam glares at him for a moment before turning to Cas. “You spent a year with him in Purgatory. Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, beaten the twelve year old out of him? Or gotten Benny to do it?”

Cas stares at him for a moment before cracking a smile. “If you couldn’t, what chance do I have?”

Sam falls over laughing while Dean pushes at Cas’s shoulder. “Asshole.”

Cas’s eyes dance in the light. The urge to disappear into the depths of the Bunker with Cas is sounding pretty good right now, or finding an out of the way corner to see if he can make Cas grin like that for other reasons.

Geoff chooses that moment to bring their food over, depositing it on the tables in front of them before pulling a bottle of ketchup out of his apron pocket. “Okay, cheeseburger for tall and macho, onion rings for tall and trench coat, and a salad for tall and handsome. Need anything else?” he asks, waiting for their responses. “Okay. I’m dying for a cigarette, so I’ll be back after I take care of that. Unless you want to join me?” He raises an eyebrow at Sam who just looks flabbergasted.

Taking pity on Sam, Dean shakes his head. “He doesn’t smoke, man. Sorry.”

“His loss. I could suck on something else too,” Geoff shoots back before disappearing.

“Holy fuck, what the hell?”

“Sam,” Cas says seriously, “I believe that man would like to copulate with you.”

“Yeah, got that. Thanks.” Shaking his head, he pours his salad dressing over the pile of lettuce in front of him. “Don’t we have something else to talk about? _Anything_ else?”

They dissolve into telling Cas about the last couple of weeks, filling him in on the plan to close Hell for good. Cas doesn’t touch his onion rings, but steals a couple of Dean’s fries while they talk. It’s a quiet relaxed meal, which convinces Dean more than anything else that everything is about to go to shit.

While Sam’s paying for their meal-- Geoff handed Sam the check and a slip of paper with his phone number on it, so Dean wins that bet-- Dean’s phone buzzes with a text. Pulling it out of his pocket, Dean is momentarily confused by the sets of numbers until his brain clicks online. Coordinates.

“Sammy, let me see your phone.”

Sam barely pauses, passing Dean his phone before turning back to the register. Typing the first set of coordinates into the GPS app on Sam’s phone, Dean stares at it for a moment, trying to figure out why Blackwater Ridge sounds familiar. He shows it to Cas. “Do you recognize this?”

Cas thinks for a moment. “The wendigo hunt according to the Winchester gospels. Why would someone text you that address though?”

Dean shakes his head, leading the way back out to the car. He needs a map and his journal.

Fifteen minutes later, the list of things he needs has expanded to include a bottle of whiskey, the demon knife, and someone he can kill, probably Crowley. Every set of location is an old hunt and a breaking news alert that someone they saved is dead.

Scribbling down the details from the last one-- Prosperity, Indiana, where Sarah Blake was just found dead in a cheap motel room-- Dean looks up bleakly. “Any ideas?”

Sam pulls his laptop out of his bag and sets it on the trunk, pausing to cough a couple of times, “All found dead in locked rooms. Some choked on their own blood, some torn to shreds…”

“Hellhounds,” Cas breathes out.

“Fuck.” Dean flips through his journal. There’s been hundreds of hunts over the years, how the hell is he supposed to know which ones were important?

His phone rings, the same number that sent the text coming up. “What?” He barks into the phone.

“So you received my text then,” Crowley says smoothly.

“What the fuck do you want, Crowley?”

“I want what every demon wants. A few souls, a nice spot for some torture, some time with my dog.” He pauses. “Except you’ve killed my dog. And invaded my torture spot. You’ve already ruined my day, Dean. You might be a little more polite.”

Sam grabs his phone off the map Dean has spread across the trunk when it buzzes, stepping away. Dean can hear him murmuring something over the sound of Crowley’s chatter.

“I’ll get right on that,” Dean snaps. “Being polite to demons. Always my favorite activity.”

“In this case, it really will be.”

“Dean, Kevin found it,” Sam says quietly, distracting him from whatever Crowley is monologuing about now. “I’m not sure how to do it, but at least we know what.”

Dean nods, gesturing for Sam to tell Cas what they’ve found. He can get caught up on the drive.

“Are you listening to me, Squirrel?”

“Torture, blah blah, death, blah blah, we’ve ruined your day. Can’t even describe how little I care.”

“You really should keep a closer eye on your family,” Crowley says slowly. “I couldn’t believe what a little birdie dropped off for me yesterday.”

Dean’s eyes flick to Cas and Sam, angled towards each other at the front of the car. “My family--” he starts. “Henry. You kidnapped Henry.”

“Kidnapped is such a strong word,” Crowley sneers. “He was so eager to come take a look at my library, he never really stopped to think about anything else.”

“What do you want, Crowley?” Dean grinds out again.

“For you to _stop_. I can’t send my dogs or demons after you, not when I don’t know what you’re doing. But Henry? Every person you’ve _ever_ saved? You can’t protect them all, Dean. You can’t protect any of them.” Crowley pauses for a long moment while what he’s saying sinks in. “One will die every twelve hours you don’t stand down. Do you understand me?”

Swallowing, Dean nods, “Yeah. I understand you.”

“Let’s see… The lovely Ms. Blake died about eleven hours ago, choking on the breath Sammy stole. I expect your surrender in the next hour,” Crowley says. “That should be sufficient time to call off Moose and the Halo.”

* * *

Crowley viciously hits the end call button and slips his phone back into his pocket as Henry reenters the library.

“There are books here, scrolls even, that I didn’t know still existed! How is this not part of the Men of Letters?” Henry asks, petting the binding of the book in his hand.

Crowley pushes him off with some sort of benign explanation, encourages him to go through the library, find anything he wants copies of. “We’ve made a point of hunting down anything we could get our hands on. These books were meant to be used.”

Henry nods. “The way they should be. We research and the trusted hunters destroy.” He stares at the pile of books he has on the end table next to his chair. “It’s so easy to forget that the lore is the hard part.”

Crowley looks at him blankly. The _lore_ is the hard part? Henry might not be as good of a bargaining chip as he thought. He certainly doesn’t have much in common with the boys.

Shaking his head, he pushes the thought aside. Henry is the best leverage he has, and given the flannel wearing morons’ obsession with family, the best he could ask for.

Dean calls him back well within an hour, unconditional surrender in hand. “We give, alright. Don’t… just don’t.”

Crowley steps outside, motioning for Guthrie to keep an eye on Henry while he negotiates with Dean. “I want a contact to that effect. Signed.”

“Fine,” Dean growls. “Where are you? I’ll meet you there.”

“No, that’s not going to happen,” Crowley snorts. “Morgantown, West Virginia. Tomorrow morning. I’ll text you the exact address when we’re closer to the meeting time.”

“I don’t--”

“Not my problem. You can show up and sign the contract or I can resume killing.”

“Fuck you, Crowley.”

“In the morning, darling. And I really don’t think I’m the bottom in this relationship, do you?”

The phone call ends abruptly.

Crowley looks down at his phone and chuckles before sliding it into his pocket. The Winchesters will be wrapped up in getting across the country, Castiel will do whatever he normally does when on the run from Heaven, and Naomi-- _that bitch_ \-- won’t have any say in it. Whatever they’re trying to accomplish averted.

Henry is blathering about something when Crowley re-enters the library, boring Guthrie nearly to tears. Guthrie shoots him a grateful look before leaving. Henry doesn’t even notice.

They spend the night that way. Guthrie comes in periodically with updates but otherwise they are undisturbed. It’s the longest Crowley has been out of Hell since he took the throne and his current favorite vacation. He might just need to keep this abandoned mental hospital for his own use. It is certainly more relaxing than being surrounded by fire and brimstone.

* * *

Sam looks down at the file in his hand and the door in front of him. The file says he should find room 7B behind this door, but they’ve been in this room before-- it’s just file storage. Shrugging, he pushes open the door and starts looking for a hidden doorway or trap door. Something they wouldn’t have noticed immediately.

Kevin takes the other side of the room, scanning the shelves for anything useful. “What’s this?”

Turning, Sam looks down at the arc of darker material embedded in the floor that extends beyond the shelf. “Huh.” Nodding at Kevin to take the other side, they pull on the shelves. They move easily, balanced on hinges that allow the shelves to move forward and to the sides without disturbing any of the contents.

“Neat.” Clicking on his flashlight, Kevin shines it into the room beyond the shelves. “We have a dungeon?” Kevin asks, stunned. “I thought this was supposed to be a cure for a demon or something.”

Sam nods slowly, pushing into the hidden room. Inlaid demon trap, subtle sigils on the surrounding walls, chains hanging from hooks and… “Jackpot.” Their missing case report sitting on a chair in the center of the trap.

Kevin darts around him to grab the folder while Sam is still looking around. Flipping it open, he captures a film reel with one hand while scanning the pages, muttering under his breath. After a couple minutes, while Sam’s still inspecting the chains and collar piled next to the chair, Kevin looks up. “This is it. We can do this. Uh… Ritual of purified blood, need… a demon, some sanctified blood, Latin, and time.”

Sam nods, grabbing the handcuffs. “Okay. You start figuring out what’s going on with that. I gotta meet Dean or Crowley will think something is going on. Text me the ingredient list and I’ll make sure someone gets it to you, me, us, wherever we end up doing this.”

“You could just get me my own car. And a PO box. I want out of here, Sam. You _promised_ this was my way out.”

Sam sighs and nods, “I know. As soon as it’s done, we’ll start. I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

“Pretty sure that’s going to happen regardless,” Kevin says dryly. “Or did you forget that Mom’s been missing for months.”

“Forget? No. Moved searching for her to the back burner since she’s repeatedly proven she can look out after herself? Absolutely.”

“It’s my _mom_ , Sam. How would you feel if your mom went missing?”

Sam looks at him for a moment before pushing past and heading down the hallway. He needs to pack a bag and find Cas to hitch a ride back to the Impala. Dean should already be halfway there, the last thing they need is a random demon spotting Dean alone and spilling the beans to Crowley.

Cas is in the kitchen, making a sandwich, when Sam finds him. He pauses, for just a moment, watching an angel of the Lord stare malevolently at half a jar of cheap peanut butter and grape jelly.

“Is this going to be a thing now? You feeding Dean when we’re staring down the apocalypse?” Sam asks, leaning against the doorway.

Cas looks up, stricken, “I thought… There’s one for you as well. There was no time to find and comfort a pig this time…”

“Whoa, Cas. It’s fine. We’re both pretty bad about remembering to eat when we’re stressed.” Sam snags the pile of sandwiches Cas has prepared. “I think we’ve found what we need though, if you’re ready to go.”

Cas nods, tossing the dirty knife into the sink. “I’ll meet you at the doors in a moment.”

Sam takes a moment to make sure he has everything the Impala doesn’t, and goes over the emergency instructions with Kevin again-- they’ve not changed, but the last thing he wants is for Kevin to get captured by demons again or whatever-- before meeting Cas at the front door. “You ready for this?” he asks.

Cas nods briefly before grabbing Sam’s arm and flying them to wherever Dean is waiting for them.

The car swerves sharply in the pre-dawn light when they land before Dean regains control.

“Dammit, Cas!”

“Stopping would have taken too much time.” Cas looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t, laying a hand on both their shoulders before flapping away again.

Dean sighs before looking over at Sam in the passenger seat. “Well, Samantha, did you find something? It sure took you long enough to get here.”

Digging into his jacket pocket, Sam unwraps and hands over a sandwich. “So get this: Ritual of Sanctified Blood. Should work, we think. Kevin’s looking at the actual ritual now, he’s gonna send it to me once he’s got it figured out.”

“Awesome. And the sandwich?”

“You’ve given Cas a complex. If he can’t fight with us, he’s feeding us.”

Dean frowns, chomping down and driving into the sun.

“In other news, we have a dungeon. Fully set up to hold demons and God knows what else.”

“We have a dungeon? What the fuck were the douches of letters _doing_?”

Sam shrugs, pulling the spelled handcuffs from another pocket. “No idea, but we can use it to our advantage.”

Dean looks over at him before nodding. “Alright. Break it down for me.”

“That’s a stupid plan,” Dean says when Sam’s finished. “Are you sure that’s going to work?”

“No, but what other option do we have?” Sam points out. “Two birds, one stone. Maybe more, since it’ll keep Kevin safer too.”

Dean frowns before nodding. “I still think it’s a stupid plan, but you’re right. And I sure don’t have any better ones.”

Looking around the old junkyard, filled with rusted out junkers and half-fixed cars suitable only for the truly desperate, Dean wonders if Crowley thinks this is going to make this harder. There’s a passing resemblance to Bobby’s place, and the reminder hurts, but not enough to make him stupid.

Time really does heal. Or he’s too busy to give a shit.

Crowley’s waiting for them in the clear area near the office. “Well, it certainly took you two long enough to get here. Couldn’t follow the directions on the map?”

Glancing back towards Sam, Dean starts towards Crowley, “We were in Oklahoma last night, you prick. Sorry we couldn’t just jump here with a snap of our fingers.”

“Just for that, I should change the terms of your surrender.”

“Spare us,” Dean spits out. “You won. Give us Henry and we’ll just be on our way.”

In response, Crowley quirks an eyebrow and reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a scroll. “In that case, if the younger Mr. Winchester will sign right here…”

“No way,” Dean barks. “Sam’s not signing jack squat without me reading it first.”

“I had no idea you were licensed in contract law.” Crowley smirks and unrolls the paper towards Dean. “As you’d like.”

Dean frowns at him, picks up the end of the contract, and starts reading it from the beginning. He only gets a few inches up the twelve foot long sheet of paper when Crowley jerks it.

“Are you gonna read the entire thing aloud?” Crowley asks scornfully. “You really are completely outclassed.”

Dean inhales sharply but doesn’t rise to the bait. Even if they have no intention of signing this, he’s reading every fucking word, just to waste Crowley’s time. Every time Crowley fusses, he moves even slower, reads a bit louder. Yes, it’s petty, but it’s the sort of petty that Dean has no issues falling into.

He’s a bit more than halfway through when Henry strolls over from where ever Crowley has been stashing him. “Dean? What are you doing here?”

“Saving your ass,” Dean grits out. “I’m busy.”

“With what?” Henry scoffs. “You can’t possibly be reading that contract and making sense of it. Your brother, maybe. But contract law is a bit cerebral for _you_.”

“Oh, Dean understands more than you give him credit for,” Crowley says. “Ignores the niceties, but how else would he know where to stomp his feet?”

Neck burning, Dean ignores him, ignores Sam’s protests behind him, ignores all of it. He drops the pretense of reading slower than normal and starts just scanning the damn contract. It doesn’t matter.

At least Henry and Sam are providing a useful distraction, their argument keeping Crowley from paying too much attention to Dean while he reads.

“Are you finished yet, Squirrel? Ready to let Jolly Green sign?”

Dean closes his eyes before nodding. “Yeah. Sam?”

Sam pushes past where Henry is still expounding on… something... and pulls a pen from his pocket. “We’re doing this?”

“Of course, you’re doing this,” Crowley scoffs. “It’s the only way to keep dear ol’ granddad alive after all--” He snaps his mouth shut when the one bracelet of the spelled handcuffs click shut around his wrist. “What are you doing?”

Dean lets the contract fall to the ground, kicks it out of the way so he can burn it later. “Taking care of business. And you, you’re business.”

Crowley raises his free hand, “I’ll just snap--”

“No, you won’t. You can’t escape these,” Sam says. “So you’re going to come with us and we’re going to have a nice chat about your future as a demon.”

“Demon?” asks Henry, disbelief written across his face. “Are you insane? Roderick is no more a demon than I am.”

Dean looks at Sam, raising an eyebrow. Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. So he doesn’t have any idea either. Great.

“Yeah. Demon. King of Hell, actually,” Sam says dryly.

Crowley starts sputtering something as Dean wraps the other bracelet around his wrist. He’ll shut up eventually, maybe. Or not, it doesn’t matter a bit to Dean. “C’mon, your majesty. Time to go.” He frog marches Crowley back to the Impala where Sam already has the trunk open and the gear stored away.

Dean pushes Crowley into the trunk, waggling his fingers in a mockery of goodbye before slamming the lid closed.


	9. Chapter 9

Kevin is waiting for him when he returns to the Bunker, impatiently tightening the tie to a poorly fitted and out of fashion suit. “Let’s go, Cas,” Kevin orders, fidgeting with the tie again. “The file we found doesn’t include a final report. We need this to work, which means talking to the survivor and you can get us there faster than stealing a car.”

“Very well. Where are we going?”

The flight to St. Louis is short, and Father Simon is more than willing to talk to them when they introduce themselves. He’s less happy to discuss the events of March 1957.

“There’s no point,” he says emphatically. “The Men of Letters are extinct, their knowledge lost. And good riddance!”

“Are you a devout man, Father Simon?” Castiel demands.

“I keep my vows,” he says defensively. “I uphold the values of Christ for my parish.”

“That’s not the same thing as devout,” Kevin points out. “Or even faithful.”

“I…” he shakes his head, looking ashamed. “‘Faith is the evidence of things unseen,’ and I have seen far too much, the worst of it the night Father Thompson attempted to cure that demon.”

Kevin frowns, looking uncomfortable in his suit. “If you know, why aren’t you helping?”

“With what?” Simon snorts. “I’m an old man now. No one needs my help.”

“The literal apocalypse has come and gone, twice, and you think no one needs your help?” Castiel stares at the man, waiting for the very human urge to punch him to pass. “Even now, your knowledge would--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Very well. Tell us about the exorcism you assisted Father Thompson with and we’ll leave you to your flock.”

What Simon tells them verifies what they already know-- purified blood, injections, modified Latin-- and not much else. “Father Thompson’s work is what drew Abaddon to us. If you are completing his work, you must ensure the Knight is locked within Hell.”

“I saw her locked there decades ago,” Castiel says coldly. “And again three years ago when I fetched Sam Winchester from Hell. I see no reason why that should have changed.”

“When you did _what_?”

Castiel ignores the question, guiding Kevin out of the office in front of him and taking flight as soon as they’re in the vestibule.

Standing in a quiet field of sheep, Kevin doubles over laughing. “You did that on purpose.”

“Absolutely not. Miracles should not be performed before the unworthy.” Castiel looks at him, carefully keeping his face blank. “We are on a schedule after all.” He keeps a straight face for a few seconds later before breaking into a smile. “I find myself sharing Dean’s dislike for the Men of Letters.”

“Yeah.” Kevin says. “I love librarians, but one of the things I like most about them is their activism. Preceptors of knowledge, _bullshit_. They just want all the stories told their way and in their favor.”

“They are not the first to think that controlling knowledge would make them powerful. And sometimes they are correct”

Kevin wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “You’d think getting almost entirely wiped out would solve that.”

There is no easy response to that-- humanity has surprised Heaven repeatedly with their inability to learn simple lessons-- so Castiel stretches out his wings, shaking the dust from them. Taking Kevin’s arm, he pauses. “Would you like to go somewhere other than the Bunker? It is the safest place, however I understand it is… confining.”

“I knew you spied on us.” Kevin thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “Stifling or not, I don’t want to risk running into a demon right now. There’s too much at stake.”

Castiel nods, unsurprised by the amount of foresight. “In that case, we should be on our way.”

He is distracted, just for a moment, by a half-realized prayer from Dean, cut off before it even really begins.

Without thought, they are on the edges of Heaven as his instincts take over.

Releasing Kevin for a moment, Castiel flares his wings and drops his blade into his hand. “Kevin, stay--”

“Hello Castiel,” Orphiel says behind him. “Naomi would like to see you.”

Angels seize Castiel’s arms and wings, trying to hold him in place and helpless. At the same time, two others attempt to grab Kevin.

Frantically, Castiel yanks his arm out of Orphiel’s grip, dropping his sword into his hand. Twisting, he ignores the scream of pain from his wings and slashes at the angel holding his left arm. The tip of his blade tears into her, grace spilling out.

She steps back in shock, pressing a limb against the wound with a shout.

“Kevin, run!” Castiel yells down the hallway.

Kevin drops, pushing under the restraining arms, and sprints down the hallway.

More angels appear, circling Castiel. Holding his sword high as a warning, he tries to back himself into a corner, but there are none.

Another angel grabs his wings, dragging the sensitive lower edge forward and out, keeping him from using them as battering rams to force his way out. More angels pile on, pulling Castiel to the ground and pinning him under their weight.

Struggling to free himself, he catches a glimpse of the empty hallway with no Kevin in sight. Orphiel wrenches Castiel’s head up and back and forces him into unconsciousness.

* * *

Blinking, Castiel stares at the white office walls in front of him, trying to figure out where he is. Still in Heaven, he recognizes that much, but he’s never seen this room. He doesn’t think.

“Castiel. With us at last,” Naomi purrs behind him.

He tries to turn around to look, jerking against restraints that lash him to a chair. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

Her shoes rap sharply against the floor, coming closer, but not where he can see her. Sharp nails run through his hair, her touch dry. “Heaven has been on the brink of civil war for the last two years.” The hand tightens, yanking his head back against the headrest.

“Naomi--” he starts before his voice is cut off, Naomi’s grace stilling his vocal cords.

“I have tried, over and over again, to bring you into the fold. But Metatron was right. You will never follow orders.”

Castiel jerks his head in shock, shouting soundlessly.

“Oh, yes. Our other problem has also returned to the Host. So now there is just you.” Naomi falls silent, coming around to face him and moving a tray of tools into position. “No matter how much I twist and bend, you never do what you’re told. Not completely.” The drill whirs into motion as she picks it up. “I suppose I shall just have to go deeper.”

He tries to scream.

* * *

They drop Henry off somewhere in Kentucky. South of Louisville, Dean thinks, too tired to do more than stop in an abandoned parking lot and wait for Henry to climb out. He’ll be back certainly, like a bad penny (and pissed, probably, but that’s not Dean’s problem), but for right now, he’s out of their hair.

Rolling through northern Missouri, Dean glances over at Sam. “Shouldn’t Cas and Kevin have called by now?”

“Maybe it took longer to find the priest than expected. Or…”

“Or I fucked up in trusting Cas and he took the demon tablet and Kevin to that Naomi bitch and he’s off sipping pina coladas on a beach somewhere.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, picks his phone up and fiddles with it. “You really think he sold us out for a Jimmy Buffet song?”

“Something’s gone wrong.”

“Dean, if they don’t show, we’ll improvise. Not like it’d be the first time.”

Grimacing, Dean presses heavier on the accelerator.

Cas yells run and Kevin books it. He doesn’t pay any attention to where he is or where he’s going, opening a door off the corridor at random and slamming it shut behind him.

The transition is a shock, the cold white of the corridors abruptly switching to a warm sunny afternoon. Glancing around, he vaguely recognizes the campus before he catches sight of a young woman rushing towards the Student Union, worn bag bouncing against her back.

“Mom?” Kevin breathes, freezing for a moment before sprinting after her. “Mom! Mom!” he calls, but she ignores him.

Kevin follows her through the building, past dozens of nearly faceless students bearing lunch trays and backpacks to a quiet out of the way study corner on the second floor. A young man is sitting on the floor, a couple of sandwiches balanced on his bag while he uses the end table as a desk, scribbling notes in the margins of a textbook.

Mom drops down beside him when he looks up, his face lighting up when he sees her. Kevin awkwardly looks away as the pair greets each other passionately, kissing like there’s no tomorrow.

Which, if he thinks about it too hard, there isn’t. This memory-vision-whatever is all they have.

“Thanks for bringing lunch, Stephen,” Mom says, digging into her bag and pulling out a couple cans of pop. “Too stressed out for that Calc midterm.”

Dad responds, but Kevin’s too frozen to hear it. Mom said they’d met during college, that they spent a lot of time in the Union, but somehow… he’d never put that together with lunch dates between classes, being young and in love, sneaking kisses.

A hand lands heavily on his shoulder, dragging him away. “C’mon, kid. You can’t stay here.”

Kevin spins around, jumping away. “Who the fuck are you?”

The guy snorts beneath his luchador mask, swirling his cape back. “Not here. Let’s move before the angels get to you.”

“And why the hell should I trust you?”

“Look, kid. I’ve been doing this long enough to know a living soul when I see one. Whatever you’re doing here? You do _not_ want the angels finding you.”

Kevin snorts. “My life for the last year has been avoiding angels. And demons. And everything else.”

Luchador mask looks over sharply from where he’s drawing something on a nearby door. “Hunter?”

“Prophet.” Kevin swallows, looking back at his parents, blissful with their whole lives in front of them. “It sucks.”

“Oh, never had one of those to rescue. Cool. Come with me if you want to live.” Luchador casts open the door, brilliant golden light nearly blinding Kevin. “After you.”

Looking at the guy closely, Kevin shrugs and steps through the portal. Whatever awaits him on the other side can’t be worse than watching his dad’s Heaven.

* * *

The prison they toss him in is near torturous-- a tiny windowless, airless cell, more of the ubiquitous white walls, light streaming from everywhere and nowhere. No room to stretch his wings, or legs, or any limb at all.

Reaching up, he scratches idly at his temple, dried blood flaking away. Shuddering, he roughly rubs his hands through his hair, trying to get the worst of it out, until the floor in front of him is showered in speckles of blood.

Backing himself into the corner, he crouches and tries to call his grace, tries to force himself out of the cell. When nothing happens, he tries again, and again, his grace refusing to respond beyond the weakest acknowledgement of his will. The effort is dizzying and he presses further into the corner, pressing his head against his knees.

Whoever has imprisoned him leaves him alone-- after all, angels require neither food nor drink-- and short of shouting his crimes at him, there is little point in torturing him.

He almost wishes they would tell him his crimes. He knows he deserves to be here, because he…

Whatever it was, it involved humanity, but that is all his memory will give him.

Castiel sees no one, hears no one. Ages in silence, broken only by whatever noise he himself makes.

He’s humming when the voice floats down the hall, “Peace, brother. Is that what the Host calls music these days?”

It takes him aback for a moment while he concentrates on remembering the song. The artist’s name eludes him, where he heard it, how he knows it. Castiel shrugs before realizing that whoever is in the other cells can’t see him. “Earth, humanity’s. And I am a poor performer.”

The voice ‘hmms’ and chuckles. “You will never learn, Castiel.”

“What?”

“Imprisoned yet again, you still sing their songs, protect them. How is your precious Righteous Man?”

“Again?” Castiel blinks rapidly, searching his memory for what the other angel is talking about. There’s nothing, not even a blank spot to indicate something is missing. Slowly, he looks down at his vessel’s-- his-- hands. They’re unscarred, of course, but he can see the delicate tracery of old wounds in his grace, scars that will never completely heal. Many of them are far newer than he has any recollection of. Gingerly, he looks at the rest of his self, following the scarred paths onto his torso.

“I don’t…”

“Of course, you don’t,” the other angel scoffs. Castiel is certain that he should know the angel’s name, there’s something _vitally_ wrong with the angel’s lack of name, that he knows him so well. “Naomi always does a through wipe.”

Castiel finds himself in the corner again, straining to materialize his blade with no result. “Wipe?”

“Dean Winchester.”

“Who is--” Castiel breaks off, the name clicking in place. _Dean_. His grace pulses wildly with the name, throbbing with almost-pain. “Dean.” Reaching up, he presses a hand to his chest, over the worst of the scarring, and presses. The pulse eases and with it comes his memory, or at least the important parts-- Dean, Sam, _Kevin_. “I cannot…”

The first and second restraints on his grace break before he has time to notice them at all. His grace breaks free of the deeply carved paths, overflowing and rushing through his vessel. He screams, almost-pain/pleasure/numbness washing over him, dragging him…

“Ah, yes,” the other angel says quietly. “Naomi did threaten to bind you the last time you were here.”

“What is _happening_?”

“You know what is happening, Castiel. You’re overthrowing the chains Naomi bound you in.”

Slowly, his grace calms, retreats to the hot wellspring at the center of his being. Gasping, Castiel stays bent over while he assesses what is going on.

Heaven doesn’t need chains if the prisoners are forced to be powerless, with only enough grace to stay alive. But he is free, the bindings caught up in his memory, with Dean. As long as some part of him remembers Dean, they will never be able to hold him captive.

The third seal, the final one, is beyond what he can break on instinct. It will require concentration and time, two things in very short supply. The guards will have heard him, will be here any moment…

Blasting the hinges off the cell door, Castiel squeezes through, ignoring the shouting angel behind him and running.

* * *

The luchador leads Kevin through a bunch of different heavens-- a boat, a couple houses, an abandoned warehouse-- before finally stopping in a rundown bar. The dim lights don’t show much beside the bar and a couple of pool tables over to the side. The luchador drags Kevin over to the bar, pushing him onto one of the stools and dramatically clapping his hands. “Welcome to the Roadhouse.” The lights come up, illuminating the rest of the room.

The added light does the place no favors, but at least now Kevin can see. “Yeah, great. Who are you?”

Dude sighs, pulling the mask off and tossing it onto the bartop. “Ash. I’m dead, you’re not, which brings us to a very interesting question about what exactly is interacting here,” he says in a rush, waving a hand between them. “However, I’d much rather have a beer and not think about it since it gives me a headache.” He leans over the bar top and snags a couple of cans, sliding one down to Kevin.

Politely, Kevin pops the can and takes a swig, nearly gagging at the taste and setting the can down firmly. Ash drinks the same bitter pisswater Dean does. “Great. Wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

“You’re on the run, compadre. Need somewhere to hide while you’re upstairs? This is… Everyone’s got their own heaven, right? This one is mine. You can hang out here while I try to figure out how to get you back to Earth without involving the winged douchenozzles.” Ash disappears through one of the swinging doors at the back of the bar.

Alone, Kevin abandons his beer and wanders over towards the pool table. He’s shit and it’s not his sort of thing, but it beats sitting alone with a beer he’ll never drink when he sees the markings on the edge of the pool table. Small sigils replacing the diamonds, hidden in plain sight.

Looking around, he sees more, cleverly worked into the neon signs and posters, tap handles, even the light fixtures.

Ash pushes back through the door, a computer in his hands, followed by a middle aged woman and a blonde girl younger than Sam. They both look right at home here, moving around Ash without any confusion.

The girl sizes Kevin up before shrugging and moving towards the arcade game in the corner, hammering the side with her fist before taking up position with the fake rifle.

“Kevin, my man. Come meet Ellen and Jo.” Ash waves a hand towards Ellen. “Sam and Dean got them killed too.”

“You said I wasn’t dead,” Kevin points out. He continues to pick out the sigils lining the place, the ones he recognizes almost all of the anti-angel of some variety or another.

Ash shrugs, types something on the keyboard and watches overlapping waves overtake the screen. “Never said it was you that was dead.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Dr. Badass over there is talking nonsense,” Ellen has taken up a place behind the bar, sliding Kevin’s beer down to Ash and replacing it with a Coke. “Now fill us in so we can get you back home.”

Slowly, Kevin spills all of it, the tablets and the plan to close down Hell. “We’re supposed to meet Sam and Dean at some church. I don’t know what went wrong-- Cas took off like normal and then we were surrounded by angels.”

Ellen frowns and refills his pop, glancing over at Jo. “You spend more time bouncing around than just about anyone else, you ever heard of anything like that?”

“Mom, I’m jumping between heavens. It’s not like I’m stopping to pick up the local gossip,” Jo shoots back, taking a final shot at the arcade screen before wandering over. “I’m more worried about what’s going on with Cas.”

Ellen snorts. “He was always a strange one. Even back during the Apocalypse.”

Kevin stays silent, lets them work through the problem-- or whatever. He’s still not sure why these people dragged him in here, but it’s better than whatever the angels had planned for him.

Without anything to add, he sketches down the wardings that he can see so he can research them when he gets back to the Bunker. Maybe if he comes back with enough information, he can convince them to go along with the rest of his plan.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Ash says loudly, backing away from his laptop. “Something big just exploded, all over the airwaves.”

“What?” Kevin snaps. “What happened?”

Ash glances at his screen before tapping at the keyboard. “Not ‘Dean Winchester is saved’ level of noise, but not far from it. We’re way over baseline.”

“What does that mean?” Jo asks, pulling a jacket out of nowhere and jerking it on. “Did they find us?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ash bites out. “You know this shit takes time. I’m good, but I’m not magic.”

“Hurry up,” she orders, grabbing Kevin’s arm and jerking him behind the bar. “We don’t have time to get Kev anywhere outside of here, so you better hope those fancy symbols of yours do something.”

Ellen is already behind the bar, pulling open a trapdoor and jumping down. Jo pushes Kevin towards the opening, watching the still empty bar.

The room underneath the bar is strangely warm, and pitch black. Ellen pushes Kevin ahead of her into the darkness, harshly ‘shh’ when he opens his mouth. “Get in there and shut the fuck up, kid.”

She follows him closely along with another pair of footsteps that he thinks belong to Jo. A moment later, the floor section thunks down, cutting off the last of the light.

Kevin breathes as quietly as he can, counting his heartbeat, trying to keep it slow. Panicking will do him no good, will hurt Ellen and Jo and probably Ash who’s done nothing but try to be helpful…

He can feel his breathing speed up as his thoughts spin out of control, made worse by the black grave he’s found himself in. The angels are going to find him and then he’ll be stuck here forever, or worse, taken to the desert to do their fucking translating and he’ll never get out and there won’t even be Game of Thrones or WoW to give him a break and…

The trap door opens, spilling scant light into the hole.

Ellen and Jo don’t move, staying hidden in the shadows until a flannel clad arm pokes through the entrance and waves at them. “We’re clear. Cas is not. We need to _go_.”

Kevin is the first one to emerge from the hole, blinking in the light before offering Ellen and then Jo a hand up.

Ash pulls them over towards his computer, pointing at some display or another. It’s too technical for Kevin to understand right off the bat, but he gets the important things: The angels are broadcasting that they’ve captured the great rebel and Cas has already been taken for ‘reeducation.’

Jo shudders beside him. “Jesus, he didn’t fuck around, did he?” At Kevin’s questioning glance, she explains, “I… managed to catch a look once. It’s torture and brainwashing at best. Sticking drills into their heads. Gross as all get out.”

Ellen looks at her sharply before turning back to Ash.

“We can’t let them do that to Cas,” Kevin says hesitantly. “He hasn’t done anything to deserve that.”

“So we get him out. And then he can take you back to Earth and we can resume dodging them at every opportunity.”

Ellen frowns and shakes her head. “I’ll warn everyone else, get a backup crew ready to go. Bill’s been whining about the lack of hunting up here anyway.”

“So you’re going to hunt angels instead?”

“You know what this place is, kid? The Matrix,” Ellen says seriously. “All of us in our very own little cell, powering up god knows what. And yeah, we get to do it with our best memories, but there’s still a huge problem with the system.”

“Well, I’m in,” Jo says, rubbing her hands together. “Chance to mess with some angel fucks? Awesome. Too bad we don’t know how to kill them.”

“Angel blades,” Kevin offers. “No idea how to get ahold of them, but…”

“Like Cas’s stiletto?” Jo asks. “I can work with that. The question is if they all carry them or if only certain classes do.”

Kevin shrugs. “No idea. Every angel I’ve seen does, but if they’re going to Earth…”

“They’re all going to be warriors of some variety, yeah.” Jo frowns. “We’ll worry about it later.”

It only takes a few minutes for Ash to disappear and come back in his luchador outfit, tossing Kevin a mask while Jo rolls her eyes. “You know if we do this right, those are just in the way. And if we do it wrong, it won’t matter anyway.”

“If they can’t see my face, they can’t identify me while we’re running away. More than that, they can’t ID _him_.” Ash jerks his thumb towards Kevin.

Kevin sighs and looks down at the hot pink and white mask in his hands, a silver star extending from the forehead, slowly loosening the lacing in the back. “Is this really necessary?”

“We must hide our faces to keep anyone from following us,” Ash says earnestly, artfully whipping his cape around.

“Alright.” Pulling the mask over his head, Kevin pushes his hair back out of his eyes. “I still think this is stupid, but it’s for Cas.”

Ellen rolls her eyes and heads out the door first, disappearing into the white light between Heavens. Jo waits a bit, adjusts a chalk symbol on the door before pulling it back open and leading the way.

* * *

The other angel falls silent after a couple of minutes. Or maybe Castiel can’t hear him any longer. He should be able to remember the other angel’s name-- they’ve clearly met before, at least once-- but while these hallways are frustratingly familiar, he doesn’t _recognize_ any of it.

He is almost as old as the stars, there should be no part of Heaven capable of confusing him, but that is exactly what is happening. It’s almost like... the knowledge of this area has been deliberately erased.

Shrugging, he starts choosing turns at random, bypassing empty cells and blank hallways, rushing to find anywhere, anything, that would show him the way out.

Hallway after hallway, corridor after corridor all pass as he rebuilds his knowledge of this place, slotting each turn into his memory. The ease with which is is rebuilt confirms that he should recognize this.

A burst of noise behind him makes him whirl around. Instinctively, he tries to drop his sword into his hand only to come up with a palmful of nothing. Cursing under his breath, Castiel stalks towards the noise-- whatever it is, there was no entrance there he could see-- only to come face to face with several humans, two of them wearing ridiculous masks that do nothing to conceal their identities.

“Hello Jo, Kevin,” he says gravely. “And we’ve not met.”

Jo punches the man next to her in the shoulder. “See, Ash? I told you they were pointless.”

“But masks are exciting!”

“There is nothing you can do to hide your identity from an angel. At best, you can obscure it for a few minutes. There are, after all, many many humans.”

“Great,” Kevin says sarcastically. “Can we get out of here now, please?”

“It’ll take a couple seconds.” Ash is already turning back around, scribbling something on the wall next to their entrance, consulting a notebook in his hand. “And it’s gonna be rough.”

Castiel stiffens as two angels appear behind the trio, swords already in hand. They lunge forward at Kevin as Ash completes the sigils. A burst of light forms in the center of the hole, sputtering and wavering around the edges.

Castiel pushes one of the attacking angels past him, further down the corridor. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jo flipping a hunting knife out of a sheath on her belt. He loses sight of her as he meets the angel in front of him.

Anahita is fast, faster than he is, but not as experienced. They sweep their blade towards Castiel, catching his sleeve and ripping through the fabric before he can dodge out of the way. Blinking, Castiel steps further into Anahita’s personal space, jerking them off balance and even closer before punching them in angelic equivalent of the kidney.

The light flares momentarily brighter and the sense of Ash and Kevin disappears from his awareness. Anahita swings again, tries to get past Castiel to follow them.

Castiel takes the blow, awkwardly placed and lacking power. Twisting around, he pulls their arm down and throws his weight to the side. They hit the wall with their shoulders, but Anahita does not drop their blade.

“Rebel,” Anahita spits. “Naomi will drill it out of you again. She always does.”

“How many times--” Castiel breaks off when he looks beyond them. The other angel-- Tabris-- has one arm wrapped around Jo’s neck and her blade pointed directly at Jo’s heart. “Let her go,” Castiel orders, tightening his grip on Anahita’s wrist. The limb erupts in frames followed by the rest of their body. Castiel flinches away, but does not let go.

“You do not give the orders here, broken,” Tabris growls.

Jo’s face turns red, unable to breathe. She deliberately catches Castiel’s eye and blinks slowly, nodding as best she can.

Very well.

Shoving forward, Castiel drags his hand along Anahita’s burning flesh, raking his fingers through their true form-- this would never work if they were in a vessel-- catching the butt of their blade in his palm, angling his fingers to force their hand open. The sword falls, and he captures it in his other hand.

He weighs the blade for a fraction of a second before flinging it at Tabris.

Jo throws herself back, dropping down.

The blade doesn’t land true, lodging awkwardly in Tabris’s shoulder. Grace streams from the wound, but it’s barely incapacitating, let alone deadly.

Anahita tackles him from behind, pummeling him with their fists and wings. He tries to beat them off with his wings, only for them to grab the delicate arches and twist.

Castiel _screams_ , losing focus on everything around him.

An angel’s grace burns out in front of him, beyond their exit, dragging him back to the fight.

He jerks again, steeling himself against the pain, and pulls his wings free.

Jo darts towards them, kicking one of the blades into his hand. She’s bleeding, but doesn’t stop moving, parrying a blow from Anahita’s wings with a slice of her blade.

Anahita recoils, jerking back to better protect themself. Grabbing the sword Jo kicked to him, Castiel flips over, shoving it among the flames.

Jo does the same, shielding her face from the explosion of grace.

Castiel is on his feet in an instant, dropping Tabris’s blade before wrapping an arm around Jo. “We need to go.”

Jo nods, staggering out of his hold to the chalk symbols on the wall. She smudges them, blurring them into incomprehensibility. “C’mon then.” Reaching back, she grabs his hand and jumps into the light between Heavens.

* * *

Cas and Kevin aren’t at the church they’d set up as a meeting point either. Staring out across the abandoned fields, Dean tries to call Cas, nearly chucking his phone into the lake when it goes directly to voicemail again. “Where are you, dammit? We can’t wait much longer.” he breaks off when Sam reemerges from the church, looking worse for wear. “Just… get here, man.”

Dean drops his phone into his pocket, jogging over to Sam. “How’d it go?”

Sam shakes his head, tapping his ear, an all too familiar motion from the last few weeks. Whatever is going on with these trials, whatever they’re doing to Sam, it’s getting worse, not better.

Dean repeats the question, dropping his voice to his lowest register. It helps, sometimes, they’ve discovered.

Sam shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Not sure if it’s gonna count-- no priest, no one listening but God, no absolution-- but confession complete. Not even sure I covered the important things.” He huffs, “Any word from Cas?”

“Direct to voicemail.” Dean sighs, looks at the Impala sitting across from them. “You ready to do this?”

Sam grimaces, but heads towards the car, yanking open the door to pull out a couple cans of spray paint. “Might as well get started with the stage dressing.”

* * *

They hop through dozens of locations, dodging the rightful inhabitants while trying to obscure their trail from any angel following them. Jo may or may not have a plan as she forges onward; if she does, she’s not sharing it with Castiel.

Instead, he’s left to watch the full spectrum of humanity relive their memories-- a shepherd girl with her crook; a young man leaning over a stove, making dinner while his mother watches; a perfect score in an ice skating competition-- happiness and contentment throughout.

“It always reminds me of the Matrix,” Jo whispers in the back of an army tent, studiously ignoring the trio of lovers behind them. “Keeping us all in our own little cell, never touching another person again.”

Castiel shrugs, watching the sigils form under her fingers on the flap. The tent is small, and they cannot move beyond it. “Some do. They will, when they are all dead.” He gestures behind them. “It is not an ideal system. But my father put it into place and we followed his will.”

Jo hrmphs before twitching the back of the tent open again. “Guess I’ll be having a chat with him then too.”

They step through, humid warmth giving way to… “This is Bobby’s house.” Castiel says, staring up at the blue paint, the near corner covered in hubcaps. “How?”

“Joanna Beth, you’re straggling. Hurry up now,” a blonde woman calls from the porch, wiping her hands down her apron. “Ash and Kevin have been here for ages.”

Jo wrinkles her nose. “Karen, how many times…”

“When you’re in trouble, you get full named. I know your mama taught you that.” Jo hurries into the house as Karen pats her on the arm. “We were worried, hon.”

Castiel stays in the yard, looking at the flowers in the front bed. He knows Bobby isn’t in there, knows that whatever is waiting inside won’t be recriminations he deserves, but he can’t force himself to take the step. Can’t make himself enter.

Bobby died knowing Castiel birthed the leviathan into the world. The least he can do now is to not besmirch the memory of his house, not when Karen has opened it to everyone.

“Come inside, Castiel,” Karen orders. “I’m not holding dinner on your guilt complex.”

“I--”

“For chrissake, Cas. I _know_. Jo and Ellen filled me in ages ago. Well, what they knew at the time. And Ash keeps us all up on the latest angel gossip.” She glares at him from the porch steps. “Bobby may have never wanted kids, but he got his boys, which means you’re _mine_. And like hell I’m giving you up because you feel guilty.”

“But I got him killed,” he whispers.

Sighing, Karen marches down the steps, grabs his arm, and starts towing him into the house. “And you saved him how many times before that? Those Winchester boys of his? Castiel, you may have unleashed the monster, but it was his own pig-headedness that got him killed.”

“If you’re certain…”

She doesn’t pause, dragging him up the stairs and into the kitchen. He washes his hands at her raised eyebrow before helping to bring the food to the table.

The table takes up most of the kitchen, extending from the wall halfway across. Kevin and Jo are already seated on the far side while Ash finishes setting beer in front of his and Jo’s places, water in front of Kevin, and a glass of wine in front of Karen.

“Cas, what do you want to drink?”

Castiel shakes his head free of the sudden domesticity. “Water is fine. Or beer or coffee.”

Ash rolls his eyes and drops off a glass of water. “Cas, my man. This is _Heaven_. You can have whatever you want.”

“You can have whatever you want. Angels require neither food nor drink.”

“Requiring, whatever. This is about _desire_.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jo waves it away. “You’re very special. Now sit down so we can eat.”

Castiel had experienced-- second-hand-- Karen Singer’s pie before, in a memory shared with him on accident. This is nothing like that. This is buttered rice and chicken baked with apricot jam and is quite possibly the best thing he’s ever eaten, including the hamburgers that Dean makes him try.

The table is silent for a few minutes while they eat until everyone has a good start on their meals.

“Alright,” Jo starts. “It’s not that we’re not happy to see your face, Cas. But I’m guessing you and Kevin were on your way to something important before you took a detour?”

“We were bringing the details of the last trial to Sam and Dean.” Castiel stares down at his plate, not seeing the remnants of his meal. “It’s my fault. I was… distracted.”

“Yeah, because we all thought your orders we broken, not just… shoved aside,” Kevin says. “It was a risk, and now we know. How do we break their hold on you for good?”

“I don’t know!” He pushes away from the table, moving as far from them as he can. “There’s at least one more seal on my grace-- probably related to what happened, but _I don’t know_. I don’t know how deep they are, if the ones I know about are the only ones, if the next time I see Dean I’m going to plunge a knife into his heart because that’s what Naomi wanted me to do… I don’t know.”

“Cas, buddy, ya gotta calm down.” Ash raises his hands. “We can fix this. And it won’t even take that long. But you’ve gotta trust us.”

“What part of my actions for the last day haven’t said that I trust you?”

Karen quirks an eyebrow in agreement before shrugging. “Good point.”

“After dinner,” Jo suggests, looking slightly green. “Last time I saw that…” She trails off, concentrating on her plate.

Castiel nods in agreement, silent taking his seat and finishing his meal. The others continue to chat around him, pumping Kevin for information about Earth.

Castiel completes the clean up with a twitch of his finger, tired of avoiding the situation. “I just… I want to go home,” he says when everyone looks at him. “The faster we get this over with, the faster I can--” probably not sleep for a week-- and that urge should probably alarm him-- but maybe convince Dean to watch a movie with him? One of the cowboy ones. Or the space opera again, Star something?

Jo looks at him skeptically, but he can’t tell what she’s skeptical of. All of it maybe? Ash and Kevin are talking quietly in the corner, shoving diagrams hastily scribbled on scrap paper back and forth.

Karen silently clears the table before pulling Castiel’s trench coat off his shoulders and hanging it in the closet off the kitchen.

“I don’t understand,” he says quietly.

“I know you don’t. You will some day.”

A psychic would make this easier, Castiel realizes as Ash and Kevin wave him over. Would allow them to actually see what is still locked into place without having to do… whatever it is that they’re planning.

Kevin and Ash draw some more sigils around the chair and Castiel’s mind _melts_.

* * *

It takes far longer than it should for Cas to come back once they erase the circle that surrounds him. Kevin stays by his side the entire time, checking and double checking the steps they went through, the sigils…

Ash disappears after a while, following Jo out the backdoor and into the yard, pausing to kiss Karen’s cheek on their way out the door. He doesn’t think they left-- and the regular pop and shatter of beer bottles reinforces that-- but sitting in a stranger’s kitchen with nothing to do is awkward.

Looking over at Karen, sitting in the living room and watching something in the yard, Kevin swallows. “Your husband should be here soon. I think.”

“He won’t, but it’s nice of you to say,” Karen glances his way. “We were never soulmates, just two people who loved each other, very much.”

“Then why--”

“If it wasn’t for Ash, Bobby’d be right there on that couch, snoring through the football game while I bake pies. He still is, if there’s no one else here.” Karen’s face falls and she swallows. “And it breaks my heart, every time.”

Kevin looks away, checking that Cas hasn’t moved, anything to give her some privacy.

They’re silent for a while longer before Cas inhales a gasping breath and leans over the table. Kevin pulls his glass of water towards them, shoving it into Cas’s hand when he stops coughing.

“Cas? Are you alright?”

Cas downs the last of the water, slowly straightening. “It’s gone,” he says, wonderment plain on his face. “The last seal. You did it.”

Kevin shrugs. “You actually did most of it, Ash and I just helped line things up. The hard part was getting you down enough for your subconscious to take over. You _really_ do not like having something controlling you.”

“I…” Cas trails off before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. Now that we are rested, we should return to Earth. I’m sure Sam and Dean are worried by now.”

Kevin nods before looking towards Karen in the other room. “I’ll… go say goodbye to Jo and Ash. Ms. Singer looks like she wants a word.”

Ducking outside, Kevin rounds the house, searching for the impromptu firing range. It doesn’t take long to find it, the shattering glass calling him across the yard.

Jo stands back once she sees him, passing him her pistol and gesturing towards the car they’re using as a table. “Go ahead. It’s a useful skill.”

Kevin shakes his head, hands the gun back. “I don’t want that sort of skill. Once this is done, I’m out. For good. College and finding my mom and a career in something useful…”

Ash plinks one last bottle, sending glass flying through the yard, before turning around to look at him. “Kev… Your mom’s dead, man.”

“What? No. That was Dad’s… There’s no way she’s dead. She can’t be.”

“I’m sorry, Kev,” Ash says, hands fidgeting at his sides. “I really thought you knew. If there was a chance…”

Kevin sucks in a breath, holds it for a moment before blowing it out. He can break down later, when they’re back on Earth. “You’ll-- You’ll keep an eye on her? In case something goes wrong?”

Jo’s hand comes up to his shoulder, patting him awkwardly. “Of course.”

“Once she’s had a chance to get settled, I’ll start introducing her around.” Ash shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels. “I’m starting to get pretty good collective together.”

“Anyway, Cas is awake so we’re gonna…” Kevin jerks his thumb back towards the house. “Got the world to save or something after all. I’ll see you around.” Turning on his heel, Kevin heads back to the house, keeping his back straight.

Cas doesn’t look like he’s okay when he gets back to the house, standing ramrod straight while he pulls his trench coat over his shoulders. Turning, Cas says goodbye to Karen and then Jo and Ash when they overtake Kevin.

Kevin stays distant, unsure how he feels about accepting Karen’s very mothering goodbye with his own fresh grief. She seems to understand, staying away.

Closing his eyes, Kevin waves briefly before Cas wraps an arm around him and they’re in flight.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam sets the last of his supplies on the old church altar, double checking everything one last time before emerging into the cool spring sunset. The grass and and slowly greening leaves are overwhelmed by rot and ozone-- but he’s pretty sure that’s all him. Dean hasn’t mentioned it anyway, and his sense of smell dying just like his hearing makes a stupid amount of sense.

Dean stands at the lake shore, silhouetted against the lake and trees on the far shore, with his hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched.

“Dean?”

He doesn’t respond, either ignoring Sam or didn’t hear him. It could be either, at this point. Sam knows Dean’s far more worried about Cas and Kevin than he’s pretending. Turning back to the car, he sighs before reaching for a bottle of water.

Something huge splashes down into the lake behind him. Dean shouts and dives into the water.

Dashing back to the shore, Sam tries to get a better look at what’s going on, but can’t see below the brackish water. Wading into the lake, he shivers at the icy chill.

Dean pops up about fifty yards out, one arm latched around someone and struggling to get back to shore. Sam pulls off his jacket and flannel and starts to wade out to them.

“Stay there,” Dean yells when Sam’s little more than waist deep. “I’ve got him.” He staggers slightly, but stands, pulling whoever it is further out of the water.

“Who?”

“Cas!”

Shit. Impatiently, Sam waits until Dean and Cas are only a few arm lengths away before meeting them.

Sam drags Cas’s other arm over his shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know! I was watching the sunset and then Cas was sinking,” Dean snaps. “I’m not even sure he’s alive!”

“I am,” Cas mutters between them, trying to push himself upright. “And I can get myself to shore, thank you.”

Sam lets go, carefully slipping out from under Cas’s arm and taking a few steps away.

Dean’s hand spasms at Cas’s waist, like he thinks about letting go, before it tightens for the last ten feet towards shore. “No, you really can’t.”

“Thank god you’re here,” Sam says, leading the way back to the church porch. “We were starting to get worried, Cas.”

Carefully, Dean deposits Cas on the steps before taking a step back. “What were you thinking, taking off like that?”

“Kevin and I thought you’d like confirmation that the spell to cure demons actually works,” Cas points out dryly. “We spoke to Father Simon before we detoured to Heaven and--”

“Kevin was with you? In _Heaven_? Where is he now?”

“Back at the Bunker. Safe.” Cas tilts his head, squinting. “Sam, I… what did you do?”

Sam blinks rapidly, just now realizing that the hazy halo surrounding Cas hasn’t dissipated now that they’re in the shade. “The first two trials? You knew this.”

Frowning, Cas beckons him over, placing a hand on his forehead.

Dean frowns deeply too, watching Cas’s face as much as Sam’s. “Well?”

“I’m not sure. Something...” Cas snaps his mouth closed, shaking his head.

“Hey, alright. We’ll muddle through.” Dean rubs Cas’s arm comfortingly, before glancing towards the car. “What did you and Kev find out from the priest?”

“Mostly? That he’s not a very good one.” Cas shrugs, reaching into his pocket for a notepad, frowning when it emerges soaking wet before tossing it onto the stairs beside him with a splat. “What they were attempting drew the attention of the last Knight of Hell.”

“What?” Sam yelps.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “She infiltrated the Men of Letters, and when given the opportunity, killed them all. It’s possible she missed a few-- the Stynes, perhaps a few others, but the vast majority of the membership were killed that night.”

“If the old men couldn’t take her down-- hell, they sent Henry through time rather than risk her getting the Bunker-- we don’t have a fucking chance!” Dean paces back and forth at the base of the stairs, ignoring Cas and Sam’s exhaustion.

“No one is prepared to take on a Knight. The secret to killing them died with Gabriel, and without the full force of Heaven behind us, we have no chance against her. Fortunately,” Cas smiles grimly, “when she last roamed this plain, the full force of Heaven was united in imprisoning her in the deepest reaches of Hell.”

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean says, without heat. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Does the cure work or not?” Sam asks impatiently. “I don’t trust those handcuffs on Crowley for much longer, it’s already been nearly forty-eight hours.”

“According to the information Father Simons gave us, yes, it will work. The report present in the Bunker was incomplete.” Cas staggers to his feet and towards the Impala. “The main difference is the number of doses-- Thompson started with eight doses over eight hours, however, he determined smaller, more frequent, infusions worked better.”

Sam sighs. “How many, how often?”

“The final trial was thirteen and twice an hour.”

“Great. No way that’s going to go bad at all.”

“Awesome.” Dean rests a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “We ready to get this show on the road?”

“Yeah,” Sam says quietly, struggling to his feet and leaning heavily against the last post. “Give me a second, I’ll--”

“Do nothing,” Dean says firmly. “Cas and me’ll get Crowley inside. You take a moment to get your feet back under you.”

Sighing, Sam watches as Dean and Cas drag Crowley into the church and secure him to the chair.

Cas double checks the circle and adds a few details before pulling Sam into what was probably once the cloakroom. Carefully, he pours holy water into the palm of his hand and dumps it over Sam’s head. “Samuel William Winchester, you are absolved--”

Cas continues, but Sam can’t hear him over the sudden ringing. Shrugging helplessly when Cas looks at him, Sam gives him a thumbs up. Time to do this.

* * *

“Are you sure about this, Dean?” Sam asks loudly. “I mean, we don’t even know if we need to worry about it-- Crowley’s been in the trunk for days and he’s sure as hell hasn’t gotten any word out since I got started.”

Dean tries not to wince, looking at the bruises already forming on Sam’s arm. The first couple of doses are already at work, trying to soften Crowley up into a squishy human.

“If we had more hands, yeah. I’d much rather stay here, watch over you.” Dean slips a final holy water bullet into his spare clip before tucking it into his jacket pocket. “But we’re short-handed, and I want all these shitheads far away from you.” He’s already checked that Ruby’s knife is sharp, there’s a spare angel blade in his bag along with some other supplies and he’s ready to go as soon as Cas is.

“I don’t think--” Sam breaks off to cough.

“Don’t think what?”

“That anyone from Hell is going to be coming after me. Surely they’ve got better shit to do.”

“Than rescue their boss? I don’t think so.” Even if they do, Dean’s confident they’ll come after him raising a ruckus over yet more torture or whatever.

This is a stupid plan, in a lifetime of stupid plans, but it’s the one they’ve got.

He sends one last text to Jody and Charlie, letting them know what’s going on, another to Kevin so he’s prepared, and tucks his phone away into his bag. He’s done everything he can do to prepare, now it’s up to Sam.

Cas pulls Sam into a hug on the porch before meeting Dean at the Impala.

“Everything set?”

“As far as I can tell. Given what we know, we need to buy him at least five more hours.”

Dean nods in agreement and reaches for his duffle. “Alright then. Let’s kick this in the ass.”

Cas reaches for Dean’s arm and they’re in flight.

This landing goes much smoother than Cas’s flight earlier, smoothly transitioning from southern Nebraska to somewhere north.

“Where are we?” Dean asks, sparing a glance around the surrounding winter-locked prairie. There’s snow on the ground and steel-gray clouds promise more to come. He’s not cold yet, but he will be soon unless they get busy.

“North of Saskatoon,” Cas pauses for a moment. “Canada.”

“Canada. Yeah, sure. Awesome.”

“You wanted to be very far away from Sam while we did this. This is _very_ far away.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dean scoffs, dropping the bag to the ground and crouching down to unzip it.

The summoning is a general one, designed to broadcast their position for a short while before shutting down. They’re banking on Hell still having them on the most wanted list but since Crowley was last seen in a meeting with them… it seems like a pretty solid assumption.

It works almost too well, half a dozen demons showing up within moments of lighting the summoning.

It’s Purgatory all over again. Back to back, surrounded by their enemies, they fall into sync, twisting around each other to stab and slice whatever demon is handy. It doesn’t even take too long-- these are _not_ Hell’s best-- before they’re surrounded by six corpses.

Dean takes a few minutes to get his breath back, watching Cas carefully wipe the blood off his blade. Leaning down, he does the same, wiping blood and sweat off before looking around again. “What do you think? Again?”

Cas looks at the remnants of the summoning. “Let’s wait a little longer. If we summon them too quickly, they’ll figure out it’s a trap.”

“Yeah.” Dean squats down beside the duffle, tossing the spare angel blade back in and setting up the second summoning.

* * *

The scrape of the gate draws her attention from slowly dissecting the demon in front of her. More ice breaks away, leaving only the thinnest of rime against her torso. It takes only a flick of her tail to force the rest away before she’s free.

She’s _free_.

The younger demon-- Bela, the fox that has been assisting her-- stumbles backwards as Abaddon roars out of the depths. It takes only a moment for Bela to flee towards the relative safety of one of the tunnels in the ice.

Abaddon watches her go-- she’ll return-- and takes flight, great wing beats echoing against the cliff face. Her initial tour is short, a bare circle around the Cage. She can hear the howling from inside, Lucifer screaming his eternal frustration.

She pushes it to the back of her mind where she can ruminate on it later. Right now, she is _free_.

She is fire, she is consumption, she will raze Hell and Earth to the bones before these upstarts will rule instead of Lucifer.

* * *

“Why are you doing this, Moose? It won’t change anything.”

Sam snorts before turning away, back to the altar where he’s set up his kit. “That’s where you’re wrong. It’ll change _everything_.”

“Will it? You will still be an orphan, running around after everything that goes bump in the night. Your other half will still be a clueless moron.” Crowley snorts.

Sam nods easily. “You’re right,” he agrees. “I’ll still be a hunter. Except for one small thing.”

“And what’s that? You think me being human will make a difference? I sold my soul once, and I’ll do it again.”

“No. There will be no more demons. Every last one of them will be trapped in Hell, no escape.” Sam strides forward, grabbing Crowley’s hair, and slamming the syringe into his neck. “You being human is just a bonus.”

Stepping back, he recites the altered exorcism, watching as it takes effect. Crowley’s head snaps back in his chair, nearly rocking it onto two feet. Sam slams a hand down on the back of the chair, forcing it to stay upright.

Too close. Crowley twists his head to the side, latching his teeth into Sam’s arm and tearing and ripping at the skin.

Sam jerks his arm away, wincing as Crowley’s teeth drag through the skin. “What the fuck, Crowley? Biting? Are you _five_?”

Crowley says nothing, smirking up at him with a bloodstained smile.

* * *

Crowley continues to grin up at Sam until he leaves the church, pulling his phone from his pocket-- probably to call his slightly more useful half-- and slamming the door behind him.

Hurriedly, he spits the blood into his cupped hand, whispering the incantation and waiting for someone to answer.

Several long moments pass, Crowley anxiously watching the door for Sam’s return, before Hell responds.

The blood bubbles and spits, the demon on the other end barely hiding their insolence.

“I am your King,” Crowley hisses. “Latch on to this spell and come _rescue_ me.”

The connection wavers for few seconds before a different demon, one he recognizes takes over. “Oh, we will definitely be latching on to the spell, and definitely be coming after you, Your Majesty,” Meg says smugly. “But it will be on our schedule, not yours.” She hmms. “I expect we’ll retrieve your corpse.”

“How did you--” Crowley snaps his mouth closed as Sam comes back inside, a bandage tied around his arm.

The connection ends, faint laughter floating from the last of the bubbles.

“What-- Dammit, Crowley.” Sam stomps through the circle, slaps the blood out of Crowley’s hand. “Fuck.”

Crowley closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, mind running through all the possibilities. Meg being in a position of power, however that happened, bodes poorly for all his subordinates. There’s no way any of them would have allowed that if they were still alive.

But why now? He’s been out of Hell for longer than this before…

The sharp prick of another syringe of blood distracts him, the warmth washing over him. The rush is…

The rush is the greatest thing he’s ever felt, slowing time, dampening the pain of the rack…

Sam recites his bits of broken Latin and it stops. Pain flares across his true form, time resumes its normal speed.

Crowley sighs, falling limp against his chains. He watches Sam for a long moment, pacing around the church. “How are Squirrel and Feathers doing? They’re off doing something similarly heroic, giving up their lives to close down Heaven or something, I assume.”

Sam stares at him. “They’re keeping far away from here.”

“Oh, come on, Sam! Give me something here. I’m at your mercy, the least you can do is talk to me.”

“About what, Crowley? About how sick I am of Heaven and Hell dicking us around?”

“What you said in there while begging for forgiveness, for a start,” Crowley cuts him off. “How do I… _where_ do I even start?”

Sam looks at him from outside the circle, disbelief warring with hope across his face. He stays silent before turning back towards the altar where he has his equipment laid out. “You can start with this.”

* * *

The third summoning nets them no demons. Either they’ve gotten a lot smarter-- unlikely-- or there’s something wrong.

Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking for a message from Sam before shaking his head. “Sam’s not done yet. What do you think, location change?”

Cas watches the last of the flames gutter out in the summoning bowl before turning to glare out across the plains. “It shouldn’t matter. If there are any demons loyal to Crowley left in Hell, this should draw them out.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, eyes picking out the dark shapes of the demons’ meatsuits against the frozen ground. “Crowley was maintaining control with fifteen demons? I don’t buy it.”

“I don’t either. We’re missing something.” Cas stands still for a moment before starting to gather the summoning materials.

Narrow fingers slide between his, Cas snagging his free hand and pulling him close. Dean inhales sharply. “Cas, that’s not really--”

They’re in motion before he can finish the sentence, landing somewhere much warmer and much more humid. It’s a shock, the air feels nearly solid after the arid frozen northland.

Dean sneezes repeatedly, gasping for air. He tightens his grip on Cas’s hand when he tries to pull away. “What the fuck?”

Cas wraps an arm around him, holding him upright until his lungs adapt to the abrupt change. “My apologies. The humidity appears to be causing some problems.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Dean breathes heavily for a moment before straightening finally, releasing Cas’s hand and looking around. He can’t tell much-- nearby dark shapes that he thinks are trees, frogs singing, the whine of mosquitoes-- but this seems like a much better place than Canada. “Where were we?”

Cas pulls a flashlight from his pocket, shining it around the tiny clearing, looking for something. “Florida. Everglades.” His hand shoots out, grabbing Dean’s shoulder before he can move more than a step away. “Do _not_ wander off.”

“Alligators?” Dean stops, and looks incredulously at Cas. “At least demons only want to kill me!”

Cas rolls his eyes, pointing his flashlight at the bag. “Warm up and reload. I don’t like how small this clearing is.”

“Then why’d you fly us here?”

“It… looked bigger from above,” Cas says slowly.

Dean frowns but ignores Cas’s evasion for the moment. Whatever else is happening, he’s right. It’ll be much easier to reload when he can feel his fingers.

Quickly, he reloads his gun with more holy water bullets and rubs the blood off the demon killing knife before settling on log-- carefully checked to make sure it is actually a log-- and pulling out the last sandwich from the stash Cas had made.

Cas nods when Dean offers up half, taking a seat on the other side of the log.

They’re silent, eating quickly while listening to the sounds of the forest around them.

Stiffening, Cas holds up a hand and turns off the flashlight in one movement. The noise of the forest around them falls silent until only a few frogs are still chirping. Soon, even they fall silent.

Blinking, Dean waits for his eyes to adjust, hoping that whatever it is will give them enough time.

The shape in the gloom ahead of them looks like a ghost, pale gray and forming out of nothing. But it’s too solid, too real. Without thinking, Dean slips a knife out of his boot and flings it at the shape.

It doesn’t even flinch.

“Castiel, control your pet before we do it for you,” a voice growls from behind them. It sounds familiar, but Dean can’t place it.

Dean starts to spin but Cas stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Flipping the flashlight back on, Cas nods gravely, hands hanging loose at his sides. “Naomi, Orphiel.”

“Castiel,” Naomi says, carelessly plucking the knife from her chest and tossing it to the side. “I am astounded by your resilience. Every time we twist you into shape, you just pop right back out.” She sounds more disappointed than astounded.

“What?” Dean mutters. “Twisting you into shape--”

Cas shakes his head, otherwise ignoring Dean. “I won’t go with you again. You’ll have to kill me.”

“That can be arranged,” the other angel-- Orphiel-- says behind them. “You have disobeyed and rebelled--”

Dean spins around to face him, nearly tripping over the log. “At least he was _doing_ something, you spineless prick.” In the darkness, he can barely see the shape behind them, dark suit and dark skin merging with the woods, with the shirt collar hovering like a ghost.

“Enough,” Naomi commands. “We are not here fight. Or to bring Castiel back to Heaven.”

“Then why are you here?” Cas shoots back.

“The Hellgate is in motion. If this is your doing…” She trails off as Cas stiffens next to him. “You _do_ know something about it.”

Cas is silent beside him, letting Naomi draw her own conclusions.

“Very well. Lucifer’s sword is the sacrifice? That is an acceptable loss, should Lucifer break free in the tremors. Knowing how the resonance works with a tainted sacrifice would be useful.”

“Wait, that’s possible?” Dean blurts out. “I thought we had him locked down.”

“You did. Some doors are not meant to be closed,” Naomi says smugly. “Thousands upon thousands of years of accumulation and debris. Inertia alone will cause massive restructuring.”

Dean meets Cas’s eyes, trying to push down the incipient panic. “Cas?”

“How do you know this? There isn’t any lore about this.”

“Metatron was more than willing to tell us your plans in return for clemency.”

“And he told you what would happen if Hell’s gates were closed,” Dean says slowly. “There are, what, three people in all of Creation who can read those tablets and one of them just showed up one day?” He shakes his head. “And you believe him? I’ve never even met the guy and I don’t trust him any further than I can throw him.”

“He’s telling the truth, Dean,” Naomi says calmly. “I’ve been inside his mind, I’ve seen it.”

“You’ve been inside all our minds,” Cas snaps beside Dean. “That’s the problem. How many times have you scrubbed my memory?”

“Too many times,” Naomi sneers. “I can never fix you for long. You always break again. No matter how many times I had you in my chair, it was never enough.”

Orphiel moves to her side, stepping into the dim light of the flashlight for the first time. Dean blinks for a moment, uncertain that exhaustion isn’t playing tricks on him.

Both angels are gone before he can spit out why he thinks Orphiel looks familiar. “Holy shit, Naomi is such an _asshole_.” Dean sucks in a breath. “Two: was that angel really riding around in fucking James Earl Jones? What the fuck?”

Cas slowly sinks back down to their log, reaching for the flashlight and turning it off. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

“Whoa, who said anything about failing? I’m fine, you’re fine, everyone’s alive and relatively unhurt…”

“Call Kevin, right now,” Cas orders. “We need more information than Naomi’s half hints.”

“Okay--” Dean drops down to the log, pulling his phone out. He waits while the phone rings and rings before going to voicemail.

Pushing himself to his feet, Dean frowns down at the screen and time-- just after three in the morning-- and hits the call button again. This time, the call goes directly to voicemail. “Something’s wrong.”

“I was afraid of that.” Cas shoots to his feet, grabs Dean’s arm, and suddenly they’re moving again.

* * *

Sam can see Crowley’s lips moving, but he can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. He’s not even certain the Latin for the last couple of injections was anything approaching correct. Crowley started sobbing after the last one though, mouthing words that Sam can’t understand.

Turning back to the altar, Sam leans heavily against it, waiting for the room stops spinning again before picking up the syringe. He lost track hours ago, a haze of needles and blood and mumbled Latin.

It takes longer than it should to find his vein-- his eyes won’t focus anymore-- and longer still pull the plunger back, wincing at the pull. Breathing heavily, Sam stumbles away from the altar, dizzy and barely able to put one foot in front of the other. He wants nothing more than for Dean to appear and tuck him into bed like when they were kids.

Crowley looks terrified-- eyes wide, saying something over and over-- as Sam approaches.

It doesn’t feel real when Dean’s arms wrap around him, forcing him to drop the syringe to the floor. Sam fights back, weakly shoving his way free, and landing on his knees.

“Last one,” he mutters, grabbing at the blood, misses, and gets his hands under him. He’ll crawl if he has to, whatever it takes to finish.

Dean says something above him, lost in the ringing. Why did Dean stop him? Dizzily, he reaches for the blood again and loses his balance.

Muddy knees in dress slacks keep him from face planting into the wood floor. A hand pushes Sam’s hair out of his face, lifting him up. Cas.

Cas says something, frowning when Sam doesn’t respond. He gently touches Sam’s forehead with two fingers.

Slowly, Sam sits back so he’s kneeling in front of Cas instead of faceplanted into his lap. The worst effects of the blood loss are taken care of, but his hearing… Shaking his head, Sam says slowly, “I can’t hear you.”

Cas’s frown etches deeper. Reaching up, he pokes Sam’s forehead again. The ringing lets up a bit more, enough that Sam can hear Dean’s shouts from a few feet away.

“Sam.” Cas draws his attention back to him, wrapping his hand around Sam’s arm. “Let it go.”

“What? No. I gotta finish. Need to close the gates.” Sam blinks, starts pushing himself to his feet.

Dean pushes him back down. “No, you don’t, little brother. Change of plan.”

“Let him finish, Dean,” Crowley begs behind them. “I want this over. Finish it, then put a bullet in my head.”

“Shhh, Sam.” Dean follows him down, pulling him close. “Let it go. We’ll finish it later.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Yeah, I know. Stay put while Cas and I take care of some shit. Then we’ll get out of here, okay?”

Sam exhaustedly nods.

Clearing his throat roughly, Crowley lifts his still cuffed hands in an awkward wave. “Hello, boys.”

Dean snorts and turns away, emptying the syringe onto the ground. “What do you want, Crowley?”

“Can I ask why? You’ve made it abundantly clear that you despise me, yet…” He trails off, appalled. He sounds so _weak_.

“Better you live than we risk Luci escaping,” Dean says bluntly. “Gates being closed won’t do a damn thing if he decides to throw another temper tantrum.”

“Oh.” Of course it’s not because Dean suddenly gives a shit about him. They never have before, even though he works his ass off to balance their needs with Hell’s.

There’s a rumble outside, something approaching. Leaning back against his chains, Crowley raises his hands again. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re about to have bigger problems.”

“How do they get bigger than fucking Lucifer--” Dean cuts himself off, looking out the window. “Cas, I thought you said we took care of all the demons that were loyal to Crowley.”

“All the ones that answered the summons. ”

“Then what the fuck is that?” Dean yelps, gesturing out the window.

Crowley crans his head, trying to get a glimpse of what’s coming. Anything that can make Dean Winchester sound like that…

“Apparently these aren’t loyal then!” Dean rushes back over to them, tossing Crowley the keys to his cuffs and picking up Sam. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Crowley raises an eyebrow and hurriedly unlocks the cuffs binding him.

Before he can get any further-- they really went overboard on restraints-- something _huge_ lands outside the church.

There’s a brief moment Crowley thinks it’s the angels, come to fetch their rebellious brother.

The roof of the church is swept away like a sand castle. One moment it’s there, the next, it’s gone, the wreckage smashing to the ground outside. A gout of fire follows, setting the western wall aflame.

A giant almost-lizard head snaps towards them, biting at something Crowley can’t see. Horrified, he frantically pulls at the chains that still bind him. When he looks up again, Cas and Sam are gone.

Dean rushes towards him, trembling fingers snatching the keys out of Crowley’s suddenly numb fingers. “What the fuck did you fucking call?”

“I didn’t,” Crowley snaps. “That’s a thrice damned _Knight_.” He follows Dean towards the edge of the circle, snatching the gun from the back of Dean’s jeans when he bends over to break the trap. “Whatever you have this loaded with, it won’t be enough.”

“No shit,” Dean snaps. “Can you even shoot that thing?”

Crowley takes aim at one of the demons breaking through the windows. He hits it at the base of its meat suit’s throat, watches it tumble through the window to land in a heap on the floor.

“Of course I can.” He half expects the demon to smoke out, to retreat and return with an undamaged body, but it stays put, dragging itself through the shattered glass.

He doesn’t have any time for more questions-- the shot acted as a signal to the rest of the demons, sending them spilling in through every window, dozens of them. They skirt the trap on the floor, even though it’s broken, herding Crowley and Dean towards the door.

The door breaks ahead of them, the double doors bursting open and shattering against the walls of the church.

Abaddon. Silver silk and red hair overlapping a demonic dragon easily the size of the church, the part animating the meatsuit only a tiny fraction of herself while the rest hunches over the church.

Crowley sucks in a breath, grabs Dean’s arm. “Dean, wait.”

Dean shakes his hand off, dipping into his jacket pocket and pulling out the demon knife before launching himself at her.

Abaddon waves her hand, flinging him to the side and pinning him there. “Not right now, insect. I’m busy.” Slowly, she advances on Crowley, staring at him. “You’re a salesman. Barely a demon. And you dare to claim all of Hell?”

“Love, I’m the reason it still exists at all.” He waits a beat. “If you want Hell, you can have it, and good riddance.”

Glancing at Dean-- still pinned to the wall-- Crowley shrugs and disappears.

* * *

Dean blinks away the tunnel vision that threatens unconsciousness where he’s pinned to the wall. Crowley disappears between blinks, abandoning him to his fate. It’s hard to blame him-- mostly human, facing something straight out of his worst nightmares? Dean’d run too.

Kinda lacking that option himself though. “So you’re the Knight that’s got everyone in a tizzy.”

Unseen forces drag him down the wall-- head first-- and in front of her, leaving him sprawled on the floor. Abaddon tilts her head, eerily similar to Cas, before knotting her hand in his hair. Dragging him up to his knees, she stares at him. “Dean Winchester.”

Dean says nothing, trying to wrench his way free of her grip.

“My lieutenants tell me you’ve caused a lot of trouble over the past few decades, that you’re responsible bringing Hell so low.”

“Did your lieutenants or whatever tell you that we killed everyone?” Dean knocks her hand away-- leaving a few hairs behind-- and launches himself to his feet. “Crowley’s the last one standing. And only because he was occasionally useful.”

He’s bent over, retching, before he even has time to register the punch. The demons behind him snigger audibly as he gasps for breath. Abaddon waits until he’s almost breathing normally before knocking the air out of him again, sending him tumbling back to the ground.

That one cracked a rib, his side screaming with every frantic inhale.

“If we had time…” She starts, running her fingers up the nape of his neck and into his hair. “If we had time, I’d peel off that ‘no demons allowed’ sign and see just what sort of fun we could have.”

Dean shudders. “No means no, bitch.”

“You ever hear a baby scream while you rip out its intestines with your teeth? You will.” The nails on her free hand sharpen, grow into actual claws before his eyes, longer and thicker than anything human. Dean’s eyes cross, trying to follow it as she holds it up before plunging it into his chest over his anti-possession tattoo.

Dean screams as a claw scrapes along his collar bone, scratching the bone before she starts to rip back out. He runs out of air long before she finishes, gasping weakly, held up only by her hand in his hair.

Releasing his hair, Abaddon tosses him to the ground a few feet away, flicking the blood off her claws. Dean risks a quick glance down to his chest-- pain screaming along every nerve-- to see how bad of trouble he’s in. He can’t see everything, and his arm is hanging like she broke his collarbone, but his tattoo looks mostly intact. Probably. Between the remains of his shirt and the blood, he can’t really tell.

The first angel hits the ground inside the church like a meteor, decades of dirt flying up to hide both the angel and Abaddon. More arrive hot on the heels of the first, fanning out to surround her.

Dean loses track of what’s happening after the second flight arrives. The demons along the walls fling themselves into the fight. Flashes of grace and demons sparking out light up the church despite the haze of dust.

Clutching his arm to his chest, Dean nearly sobs when he finally regains his feet before making a dash for the door. No one is focused on him and he has never been more glad to let the heavy weights duke it out on their own.

He can’t reach the doors though, not with dozens of demons and angels battling between him and it. Instead, he takes shelter in the tiny space between the altar and the heavy stone wall-- curling himself in the smallest ball possible, hoping he’ll be overlooked. It’s not his favorite tactic, he’d much rather be in the dust cloud stabbing demons, but without outside assistance, he’s worse than useless right now.

Abruptly, the noise cuts off, the deafening fight dropping to near silence with only the tinkle of glass falling. Pulling his spare knife from his belt, Dean peeks over the altar to see what he missed.

Everyone’s gone. There’s no one left, outside of a few bodies anyway. Three or four that look like they were smited-- demons, he assumes-- and at least that many wing prints burned into the walls and floor. Dean swallows before pushing himself to his feet, trying to blink away the tears that form. Carefully, he makes his way towards the center where the worst of the fighting happened.

There’s nothing there, not even bodies, just the floor burnt to ash and a few more overlapping wing prints. Shakily, he hobbles out to the car, too shocked to even pray.

The phone in his pocket is shattered, flakes of glass slicing open his finger when he tries to unlock it before tossing it aside. It takes Dean a couple minutes of staring blankly at the car to remember that he left it unlocked. He doesn’t even bother to check the spare phone before trying to call Sam.

No answer.

Cas. No answer.

Desperately, he starts dialing every number he can think of. Finally, on the sixth or seventh call, Charlie answers.

“Oh, thank fuck. I’m not dead,” Dean blurts out as soon as the call connects.

“Dean?” Charlie asks slowly. “Are you alright? You don’t sound so good.”

Dean shakes his head to clear it. “I… Sam. Cas took Sam and he was hurt.”

“Sam was hurt or Cas was?” Carefully, she gets him to tell her everything he can. “Alright. I’m searching for them both. Get back to civilization. I’ll have a location for you by then.”

Dean pockets the phone, still dazed. Climbing into the car nearly makes him black out-- that rib is definitely cracked-- and it takes him a long time to get the keys out of his pocket and into the ignition.

Sucking in a breath, he throws Baby into reverse and gets on the road.


	11. Chapter 11

The unsteady beep of Sam’s heart monitor and hiss of the breathing pump act like a lifeline, keeping Dean awake while he pours over Sam’s charts. Dozens of pages, filled with medical jargon, that Dean stares at, the multi-syllable words spelling out Sam’s death. And soon.

He’s been praying for days anyway, with absolutely no luck. Dean doesn’t have any hope for angelic intervention, not anymore, not when Cas dumped Sam in front of the ER three days ago before fucking off to god knows where.

Dean winces as he shuffles the pages back together and onto the clipboard, gingerly hooking it over the foot of the bed with his good arm before leaning back as far as he can. He’s busted up too, just not… life threateningly so. Doctors can’t do anything about a cracked rib or a bruised bone, so he hasn’t said anything. The most care he’s given himself is washing out the puncture wounds from Abaddon’s claws with holy water before snitching some suture kits to patch himself up.

Hell, he doesn’t even have a clean shirt of his own.

He must doze off for a few minutes, because the afternoon nurse wakes him up when he bustles in to check Sam’s vitals.

“Hey George,” Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Any change?”

“You’re in here more than me. You tell me.” George raises an eyebrow, taking in yet another stolen scrub top and days old flannel. “You need to go home, Dean. You can’t do anything if you’re killing yourself here.” He holds up a finger while listening to Sam’s chest, polite smile becoming stiff and plastic.

Dean watches, glancing at the heart monitor. “You know I can’t do that.”

“You can do whatever you want. You won’t.” George updates the charts, frowning. “Honestly, Dean, get some sleep in a real bed, shower, get someone else to stay with him. There’s nothing you can do.”

Dean can’t hold back the snort and winces when his chest protests. “He’s all I got.”

“So you’ve said. Repeatedly. Eventually, the docs are gonna kick you out anyway.” George rolls his eyes before making sure the door’s closed behind them. “Alright then, Macho Man. Shirt off, let me see how bad those wounds are.”

“I’m fine, man. Really.”

“Bullshit. You’ve got your own reasons for wanting to avoid the doctors taking a look at you, and that’s stupid, but allowed. But it’s been at least three days, and you’re still moving like you got stabbed.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dean huffs. “How did you--”

“Because I also pick up shifts in the ER. C’mon. Let me take a look.”

Grimacing, Dean strips off the flannel and scrub top. Every movement irritates the stitches, burning across the surface of his skin. The puncture wounds _feel_ infected, despite the holy water he keeps washing them with. He pushes at the swelling that surrounds them, doing his best to ignore the bruising that covers nearly half his torso.

The snap of a fresh pair of gloves startles him. Dean tilts his head back and clenches his jaw while George inspects the bruising and stitches.

“You did pretty good on the stitches for someone who was stitching on himself.” George grabs some fresh gauze off his cart, taping it over the disaster. “The rest of it’s not great, but I don’t see any signs of infection.” He huffs. “This happened at the same time as whatever happened to Sam? You’d be better off if you got some actual rest.”

Dean shrugs and immediately regrets it. From this close, there’s no way he can hide his reaction from George. He tries to anyway, roughly grabbing the scrub top off the bed and pulling it on, ignoring the clammy sweat that breaks out across his torso. “Awesome. Thanks.”

George steps back, crossing his arms. “What else? Screwed up collarbone. Scrapes and cuts in addition to the nasty, but dealable with OTC pain meds. Not that you look like the sort of guy who would bother.”

In response, Dean digs into his pocket, rattles the bottle of prescription painkillers before shoving them further in. “I can still use my arm, bone’s not broken. Cracked a rib, but you can’t do anything about that one.” He gestures vaguely, hoping George will fill in the blanks.

“You’re sure it’s not broken?” George asks sharply, reaching for his stethoscope.

“I’ve had enough to know the difference.” Dean pushes away his prodding hands. “No strenuous movement, breathe deeply, ice it, and take aspirin as necessary.”

“Yep, that’s right.” George frowns, glancing at the fresh bandage hidden by Dean’s shirt. “What the hell did you get into anyway?”

Dean’s saved from answering by the doctor letting himself into the room. He greets them both before picking up Sam’s chart to read over it. George nods at a couple of instructions before disappearing out the door with his cart, leaving Dean and the doctor to chat.

Dr. Anderson spends another couple of minutes examining Sam before sighing and stripping off his gloves, tucking them into the trash can. “Mr. Stanwyk, I’m afraid it’s time to start discussing options.”

Blinking, Dean stares at him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Sam has been in a coma for three days and doesn’t show any signs of recovery. He _can’t_ recover, not from this.” He frowns, glancing at the notes. “Mr. Stanwyk, brain damage is certain and his organs are already failing.”

“So, what? He spends the rest of his life in a coma? How is that better?”

“It’s not,” Anderson says quietly. “Sam is going to die. I’m sorry. Your choice is if he goes fast, without regaining consciousness, or slow.”

“No.” Dean shakes his head and pushes himself painfully to his feet. “That’s not-- You have to _do_ something.”

“We’ve done all we can. The only thing left is prayer.”

“You’re a friggin’ doctor and you’re telling me to pray? Jesus fuck,” Dean scoffs. “Don’t you think I tried that?”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Stanwyk.”

“Get out of here,” Dean snarls, unable to tear his eyes away from the breathing pump.

Dr. Anderson nods, briefly touching Dean’s shoulder before slipping out the door. “When you’re ready to make a decision, let me know.”

Dean’s _never_ going to be ready to make that decision. His entire life-- “Fuck!” Gasping, he drops back into the chair.

He drags his phone off the tray, thumbing open his contacts and dialing Cas again. Like it has for the past day, it goes directly to voicemail, doesn’t even ring anymore. Maybe his battery’s dead. Or he doesn’t have signal, they probably don’t work in Heaven after all.

Or maybe Cas is dead.

The heart monitor continues to beep a-rhythmically, the spikes and valleys making whatever pattern they want. Determined, he climbs to his feet, taking hold of Sam’s hand briefly. “It’s ok, Sammy. I got this.”

The chapel is on a different wing and floor, near the ER. Small and non-denominational, it’s empty except for a few rows of chairs.

“Cas, Castiel. Sammy’s hurt, pretty bad. I need you. Where are you, man? You gotta give me a sign. _Something_.” He’s silent for a long moment, waiting for Cas to appear or, hell, for his phone to ring. Something. _Anything_.

Nothing happens.

“Alright. Fine. Fuck you very much.” He takes a couple of deep breaths before glaring up at the cross. “This goes out to any angel with their ears on. This is Dean Winchester. Sam’s hurt, bad, trying to do your job. First one who gets here and heals him? I’ll owe them a favor. And that ain’t nothing.”

He waits a few moments, but there isn’t any immediate response-- or at least, no one shows up in front of him. Shaking his head, he painfully gets to his feet and pushes out of the room. Fuck them too.

* * *

“Here’s your nasty-ass lime jerky,” Sam snaps, tossing the bag through the open window of the Impala and into Dean’s lap. “I can’t believe you’re going to make me ride in a car with that shit.”

Dean smirks from the passenger seat, stretching out. “Payback for that toxic burrito yesterday.”

Sam scoffs, double checking the gas nozzle is put away before climbing into the driver’s seat. “Where we heading? The shifter in St. Cloud or the ōkami in Fargo?”

Dean shrugs. “Or Bobby’s. We’ve not been up there in a while and Baby could use some TLC.”

Sam sighs and flips the headlights on. “Ōkami it is.”

The drive passes in an exhausted haze that Sam barely remembers by the time they park in front of the burnt out ruins of Bobby’s house. It feels like Sam barely closes his eyes for a nap in the backseat before Dean is banging on the window, his arms full of parts.

“Hey, let me in. The door’s locked.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Levering himself up, he unlatches the front door. “Get in here, jerk.”

There’s a brief moment of disorientation before he flops back down on his bed.

* * *

Dean takes the long route back to Sam’s room, stopping by the vending machine to grab a cup of (lukewarm, shitty) coffee and wash down a couple more painkillers.

An alarm blares in Sam’s hallway, doctors and nurses urgently shouting instructions to each other.

Breaking into a run, Dean rushes towards Sam’s room in time to see George and another nurse get tossed through the doorway and into the crowd that surrounds it. Dean blinks and pushes through the crush.

“Sam?”

Sam ignores him, ass hanging out of the back of his gown and face turned towards the sun.

Dean squints as the light bulbs above them blow. “What the hell?”

Sam turns around to face him, his posture marine straight. “I have heard your prayer, Dean Winchester.”

Dean blinks rapidly. “Awesome. Can you heal and get out of my brother now?”

“He has consented to this,” the angel says. “I will leave him when my work is done.” He looks past Dean to the doctors and nurses crowding around door. A slow smile spreads across his face before he disappears.

Dean falls to his knees, staring at the bed in shock while the staff pours into the room, desperate to know what happened. He must stammer out something-- believable or not, he has no clue-- because eventually, most of them leave, leaving only Dr. Anderson and George behind.

“When I said to try prayer, I didn’t--” Dr. Anderson breaks off, picking up charts at the foot of the bed before dropping them. “Excuse me, I think I need to reexamine my entire career.”

“Don’t bother,” Dean huffs, slowly climbing off his knees. “It’s not… Upstairs is almost as bad as downstairs, and even less likely to help.”

“Hell is more likely to perform a miracle than Heaven?” George asks skeptically.

“Be desperate enough, be willing to meet their price… Yeah. Crossroads will do just about anything.”

“That’s not possible,” Anderson says, staring at the rumpled and empty bed. “None of this is--”

Dean rolls his eyes, snags his phone charger out of the wall. “My entire life isn’t possible that that standard, Doc. Yet here I am.” He can barely hold back the grimace as the claw marks throb in counterpoint to his rib.

Anderson and George disappear after a few minutes, in search of the appropriate paperwork Dean thinks. He tuned them out after they devolved into shock and awe and disbelief. Yes, the truth is out there, and it mostly wants to eat your face.

* * *

In the aftermath of the battle, the flight back to Dean is long and exhausting. Castiel is forced to stop several times to rest, adjusting his flight plan to account for his limitations. The first flight-- from the battleground to somewhere in China-- is the worst, bleeding grace from a wound that should have killed him and a wrenched wing. He’s forced to rest after that, longer than he wants, while listening to Dean’s ever more panicked prayers.

His phone is shattered and ocean soaked in his pocket, broken in the fighting, so he can’t even let Dean know he’s on his way.

Dean’s prayers have descended into mumbled curses and threats by the time Castiel reaches North America, nearly three days after he left.

Eventually, his damaged wing collapses entirely, spilling him out of the æther and onto a small two lane blacktop highway. Dean’s longing wars with Castiel’s own exhaustion before it fades, leaving him with nothing to home in on and no idea where he is.

Castiel manages to get off the road and down the embankment before giving up. He needs rest before he can continue on foot. His wings are too badly damaged to risk flight-- another injury might prove permanent.

Dawn comes slowly, creeping up in the cold air before the sun bounces above the horizon. As soon as it has fully risen, Castiel pushes himself back up the embankment to walk along the road. He doesn’t know where he is, or how to get to Dean, but if he’s moving, he’s accomplishing something.

He walks for hours, rising sun at his back, before he spots a sign that tells him where he is-- Missouri, nearly to the Nebraska border. It’s not great, miles upon miles away from the church where he left Dean, but it’s a start.

A young man in his late teens gives Castiel a ride across the bridge and allows him to borrow his cell phone long enough to call Dean.

“What?” Dean barks, road noise and the radio playing in the background.

“Dean,” he breathes.

“Cas? Thank fuck. Where are you?” The radio in the background is suddenly gone, and the road noise much quieter, like Dean is pulling off the road. “Please tell me you’re close.”

“I… don’t know.” Castiel blinks, catches the city limits sign out of the corner of his eye before his ride turns off the main road and into a bar parking lot. “I’m in Rulo, Nebraska. Off of US-159.”

“You safe?” Dean barrels on before he can respond. “Stay there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hangs up before Castiel can respond.

Carefully, he turns the screen off before handing the phone back to the young man. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“You going to be alright? My folks are expecting me home, but I can call--”

“No, I’ll be fine.” He stares at the beat up bar sign in front of them. “My friend is on his way.”

“If you’re sure.”

Castiel forces himself to smile and climbs painfully out of the car. “It’s not a problem.”

The young man frowns, but nods, reversing out of the parking spot and continuing on. Castiel watches him go before turning back to the bar in front of him. It’s as good of a place as any other to wait.

* * *

Dean’s phone rings again on the seat next to him as he speeds down the highway. On his way to get Cas. Who’s alive and-- “Hey, Kevin.”

“Any updates for the home team?” Kevin asks dryly. “You’ve been out of contact for three days.”

“Shit.” Dean blinks, runs a hand through his hair. “I-- Hell’s still open, Abaddon might be free, Sam’s possessed by an angel, and I have only the vaguest idea of where Cas is.”

Kevin is silent for a long moment. “Hate to add onto a bad day, but the Bunker’s locked down too. I can’t leave. Just got phone service back about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Of course.” Dean snorts. He does the mental math on how long it’ll take to get back. “I’m like… five hours away. If Cas can fly, faster. Hang in there.”

“Platitudes from a cat poster. Nice, Winchester.”

Dean rolls his eyes, focusing on the road in front of him. “Anything else, Kev?”

“Just… be safe.”

“Yeah, you too.” Dean hangs up and presses a little harder on the gas. The sooner he can pick Cas up the better.

Rulo is tiny, smaller than Lebanon even, and doesn’t have a library or grocery store. Eventually, Dean finds the only bar and thus only place Can can be.

At two o’clock on a Sunday, there’s not a whole lot of business. A couple of old guys with the look of regulars ride stools at the bar while the bartender polishes mugs.

Glancing around, Dean spots a shuffleboard table along the back wall with Cas and another guy-- the cook maybe?-- leaning over one end. Breathing out, Dean waves at the bartender and heads towards them.

Cas is here, Cas is _safe_.

The cook lines up his last shot and lets it fly. It teeters on the line between scoring areas and they bend over the table to determine scoring. Dean raises an eyebrow when the cook passes Cas a pile of bills and slaps him on the back, saying something.

Cas tries to push the entire bundle back to him, but the cook refuses, saying something that Dean can’t hear. Cas laughs tensely and nods, peeling off a couple and passing them back. He looks up when he’s done, his face lighting up when he sees Dean.

Some of the tension in Dean’s chest relaxes. Cas is _fine_ , maybe a little low on mojo, but he’s not going to die immediately.

Something is going on with him though. Cas is twitchy as all get out, his left arm slightly stiff. Dean wants to drag him into a hug and never let go when Cas finally makes his way over, but refrains.

Not here, not now. Not when the smallest bit of comfort is going to destroy every wall that’s keeping him standing.

Instead, he jerks his head towards the bar. “We need to settle up or anything?”

Cas nods, peeling off at least half the bills, stuffing them into the tip jar, and sliding the rest into his pocket. “Tim spotted me the initial ten on the assumption you could make good on that much at least.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Shit. Did you--”

Cas sighs, fingering the pocket. “I wouldn’t have taken any of it, but he insisted, especially after it became apparent that I was more than capable.”

“Alright. Let’s go.” All the same, Dean fumbles out his wallet, shoves a twenty into the tip jar on the bar, before guiding Cas out to the car with a hand on his back.

There’s two easy routes back to the Bunker from here: the direct path, that will take them by the church and hospital, and the route that will take them past the pile of burned timber that used to be the Roadhouse. Dean doesn’t even think about it-- he’ll take years old grief over the fresh hell of not knowing where Sam is any day of the week.

Dean pulls over to get gas at the Gas n’ Sip across the street. Cas disappears into the store while Dean gets the pump going and leans against Baby’s trunk, staring at the ruins.

The law hasn’t caught up to reality, apparently. A much abused temporary fence surrounds the building, barely enough to keep even casual trespassers out, let alone teenagers looking for a place to smoke. Otherwise, the rubble looks about the same as it did when the place burned.

Cas comes back out and hands him a cup of coffee before chucking a bag of snacks in through the passenger window. “They’re okay,” he offers, standing next to Dean and listening to the pump tick. “Jo… Jo has honed her skills. She defeated an angel in combat. Ellen is much the same and so, so proud of her daughter.”

Dean nods, choking on years old grief. “Did-- Did Ash find them?”

“And Ms. Singer. I didn’t ask about anyone else.”

Dean nods again, pulling the nozzle out of the car when it stops pumping. “Good to know. Good. To. Know.” He doesn’t say anything else, moving the coffee cup and pulling out a map to confirm what he already knows is the best way to get back to the Bunker.

* * *

Hell is in shambles when Crowley returns. Long standing practice has dissolved into anarchy as ancient demons barely remembered emerge from their prisons to retake control. Crowley scoffs as he watches a horde of demons-- old enough to know better-- drag one of the Princes back to install them on the throne of their demesne.

Crowley watches from the shadows as the princes crack down on anything approaching dissent, returning Hell to how it was in their prime. Torture and screaming, no thought or calculation, everyone too busy trying to survive to risk themselves.

He thinks about his goals, watching Hell tear itself apart and rebuild, only to repeat the whole cycle again a few weeks later. He schemes, insufferable buffoons block him. He works around them, only to find his path forward cut off by a random beheading.

All of Hell is in complete chaos and he’s not sure how to win the game a second time.

Or even if he wants to, thanks to Moose’s so-called ‘cure’.

Guthrie is dead, most of the kennels-- a decision he hopes comes back to bite all of them in the ass-- as well, and there is a thriving trade in smuggling demons top side.

It takes weeks more of careful work to get his collections out of Hell before he’s satisfied of their safety.

Looking over the remains of his kingdom, Crowley drops a lit match into a bowl with a virgin’s heart and watches, stone faced, as a thousand demons are vaporized. He disappears before anyone can trace the spell back to him, Juliet following closely behind.

* * *

By the time they reach the Bunker, Dean’s painkillers are long gone and he _itches_. It’s been days since his last proper shower and, even if Cas hasn’t said anything, Dean can feel the dirt and grime on his skin, sweat and hospital stink on top of everything else.

Unlocking the Bunker’s front door with a heavy thunk, Dean’s relieved when the lights in the tunnel are on. Even if the place went into lock down, Kevin’s not been sitting in the dark for most of a week.

“Cas?” Dean pauses when Cas stops abruptly. “Everything okay?” They never did check for angel warding on this place--

Cas blinks and shakes himself, striding confidently down the hall. “It’s not-- Everything’s fine. I’m glad Kevin is safe.” He sounds hesitant though, like something isn’t matching his expectation.

Dean frowns at Cas’s back before following him down. He’s just going to trust that Cas isn’t hiding anything. Or nothing that’ll bite them in the ass.

At least with Cas heading down ahead of him, there’s no one to witness his near whine when the weapons bag bangs into his side. It leaves him breathless and coughing, leaning against the trunk while he waits for the pain to subside.

Carefully, he picks up his other bag and makes his way down the tunnel into the Bunker. There’s a crossbow bolt stuck in the railing at the top of the stairs, but Kevin is nowhere to be seen. Cas stands at the map table below him, looking at the map and tools they’ve still not found homes for.

“Dean,” Cas breathes out, glancing up at him. “Do you know what this place is?”

“Henry called it the supernatural mother-lode, whatever the hell that means.” Dean limps his way down the stairs, dropping his bags at the foot of the table. Shrugging gingerly, he drops down into one of the chairs around the table. “There’s a lot here, and Henry knows more about it than we do. Not that we can trust him not to be an idiot.”

Cas tilts his head. “You’re hurt.”

“Yeah, well, I’m also alive and not a demon’s chew toy.” Dean closes his eyes and reaches up to rub at his shoulder before dropping his arm. “A win is a win.”

A beer is dropped next to his loosely closed hand followed by the rattle of a pill bottle.

“Beer and painkillers,” Kevin says firmly.

Cas drags another chair closer before reaching out to touch Dean’s forehead. Dean inhales sharply, waiting for the warm buzz of Cas’s grace to burn out the pain.

It doesn’t come.

Oh, the pain of the cracked rib fades, and some of the pain from his collarbone, but nothing else. Cas slumps back into his chair as his grace fades.

“Cas?” Dean asks sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s all I can do,” Cas mumbles. He looks away, grabbing the second beer Kevin brought and taking a deep drink. “I’ll need to… recharge… before I can do more.”

Dean leans back in his chair, looking Cas again, putting what he sees in context. Yes, he looks exhausted-- which probably should have been Dean’s first clue-- but he’s also lacking _something_. “What happened? One moment you were at the church with me and then you and Sam were gone and…”

“I took Sam to safety. Obviously. And then--” Cas breaks off.

“And then?”

Cas looks up, eyes bleak. “And then my garrison was called forth to battle. Abaddon, the last Knight of Hell, escaped her imprisonment and was wreaking havoc.”

“I thought you said--”

“I was wrong.” Cas waits for Dean to swallow a couple of painkillers before continuing. “We-- _They_ forced her back into Hell and sealed the rift she created behind her.” Cas falls silent, playing with the label on his beer bottle.

Dean nods, working through the things Cas didn’t say. A battle, yes, fought to a draw. Abaddon in Hell, but not locked away. The rift she tore… “What did they use to seal her snake hole?”

“The same thing they have always used. The grace of an angel.”

Dean stares at him. “If you just used the last of your grace--” he breaks off, passes Cas the rest of his beer. “I’m not worth that.”

“You’re worth anything I want to pay,” Cas says sharply. “But no. What I used healing you will, eventually, be returned to me. I’m still an angel.”

“You’re not telling me everything,” Dean accuses. “Are you going to spill or do I need to find another freaking book?”

Cas shakes his head, slowly. “It’s a very high privilege, one that hasn’t been awarded in centuries. One that hasn’t been _necessary_ in centuries.” He takes another drink of his beer before glancing around, avoiding Dean and Kevin’s eyes. “The grace has to be willingly sacrificed, excised from an angel’s true form and threaded back into creation to seal the fetid thing.”

“Some honor.” Dean snorts. “Let’s maim you to seal our enemy away. It’ll grow back right?”

Eyes bleak, Cas stares at the map table, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle. “Such a scar is a badge of honor, worn for the rest of the angel’s existence.”

“And how long is that likely to be?”

Cas bites his lip. “It has been a very long time, and no other angel has had--”

“How _long_ , Cas?”

“Years. Decades even.”

“What?” Dean clenches his jaw, feeling the thump of his heart. “Their great reward is for you to die? Jesus.”

“I’m not going to die,” Cas snaps. “Not immediately. Now, I believe we have work to do? Where’s Sam?”

Dean snaps his mouth shut.


	12. Chapter 12

The battle rages for days, destroying a small island off Australia’s coast, angels and demons fighting. He’s unprepared-- centuries have passed since he last saw the outside of his cell, and now, forced to Earth among other angels to fight against a Knight of Hell? He nearly dies in the first skirmish, a demon grabbing his wings and dragging him into the sand.

After that, he’s more careful. Unencumbered by a vessel, he’s more powerful, yes, but he is also more vulnerable to demon attacks. A vessel could protect his wings, make it harder for a demon to harm him.

(There’s also a level of anonymity that comes with a vessel, other angels not immediately knowing who he is, not faltering when they realize who they have trusted…)

As much as he wants a vessel however, he finds it almost impossible to get away from the battle long enough to secure one. He spends three days fighting without a vessel, hiding in the back of his old garrison, before the battle cools enough he can break away to find one. He’s not unusual in that, dozens of angels are in the same situation, unable to woo a vessel into consent before they were needed on the field. They leave in waves, disappearing for hours at a time before returning.

He’s still watching a bartender, trying to avoid notice, when Dean Winchester yells across every band of angelic communication. _“This goes out to any angel with their ears on. This is Dean Winchester. Sam’s hurt, bad, trying to do your job. First one who gets here and heals him? I’ll owe them a favor. And that ain’t nothing.”_

Dean… Castiel’s charge-friend-lover. Gadreel immediately homes in on the prayer’s location to appear at Sam’s side.

Manipulating Sam’s dreamscape is easy enough, gaining his consent takes a matter of moments. By the time Dean returns to the room, it is done and he is being recalled to the field.

The battle is over by the time he returns, with several flights watching the perimeter while others prepare to return to Heaven. Still more rejoice in their victory, singing hymns of thanksgiving and praise. It is the same aftermath as any other battle with Hell with one key difference.

An angel-- unidentifiable from a distance-- is forced to ground, to stand over the rift torn between Earth and Hell. Other angels land beside them. It is too far to see or hear what is discussed, but every angel watching knows what happens next. There has only ever been one solution to such damage to their Father’s creation.

Gadreel watches the beginning of the _Commah Siatris Ondon,_ watches as the angel’s grace is pulled from their vessel in preparation of being sewn into the very fabric of the earth _,_ before fleeing.

He flies the world-- safely anonymous in his new vessel-- until he is certain that he has not been followed. Hidden on a sandy plain, he inspects Sam for any damage from the battle before healing it and turning towards the inside.

Half-healed grace burns greet him, years old; mental damage-- both physical and psychological-- shows more scarring and trauma; years of grace healed gashes, breaks, and sprains.

Including-- Gadreel hums-- the etching on Samuel’s ribs that hide him from Heaven and Hell. He focuses for a moment, repairing the etchings that broken bones and time had softened and altered.

Secure in his vessel and confident that no one will be able to follow him, he stretches his wings and flies elsewhere.

Staring at the vast waterfall where Eden once stood, he carefully rearranges Sam’s mental landscape, strengthening the links between his soul, mind, and body as best he can, moving with a surety he doesn’t feel. This damage truly calls for the Rit Zien, for all that he does not dare call for assistance.

The falls are built up now, thousands of tourists standing where he once stood, watching the water pound the last remnants of paradise into mud. He retakes his ancient post for a brief instant, the moon and flood lights reflecting off the white of the water.

The Fall was not his responsibility, he was one of several guardians. Eve’s curiosity, Adam’s reluctance, Lucifer’s temptation, Father’s lack of instruction… Yet he took the blame. Never again. He has been imprisoned forever, he will not return.

* * *

She rages against the closed tear while her shedim search through Hell to find her other exits, other secrets.

Bela approaches, fearfully, from the direction of the Grove and its ruler. Her fear is sweet, perfuming the sulfur with the metallic tang of utter terror. It is almost as intoxicating as human blood spilled across hot sand.

“I have Abimelech’s response,” she says, holding out a sheaf of parchment.

Abaddon waves it away, watching as the Pit slowly-- too slowly-- re-fashions itself. “His answer?”

“That the forest shall remain as it always has-- neutral in the affairs of Hell,” Bela says. “He holds his territory closely and guards it fiercely. It won’t--” Bela chokes on her voice as Abaddon uses a wing to lift her by the throat.

“It won’t what? Fall to me and recognize me as its ruler?” Abaddon scoffs. “What do I care about kings?”

Wide-eyed, Bela nods, frantically.

“With Alastair dead, find out who owns the Pit,” Abaddon growls, dropping Bela to the ground. “They’re next.”

Bela barely keeps herself from curtsying before darting from the room. Abaddon watches as she flees, thinks about the potential benefits of sending her back to the rack. Bela’s youth and inexperience are a liability. Useful, when she needed information, but now?

The flayed pile of demonic flesh in the corner coughs and laughs harshly, rolling so its face looks across the floor towards Abaddon. “You’re not going to like what she finds,” it says smugly.

Abaddon twitches a claw and watches as locusts pour from the walls to eat their fill. “You will like it even less.” Shifting, she picks up the sturdy ring of brass and iron with delicate hands to examine it further.

What the wretch could have possibly thought it was going to accomplish with a worn down trinket such as this...

Her thumbnail catches on one of the designs carved into the face of the ring. Tilting it into the light, she watches as the sigils re-carve themselves before lighting up briefly. “This was hidden away. Where did you find it?”

“My Lord spoke. I listened.” The pile of locusts slowly grows smaller, reforming into the demon, until she lies sprawled across the floor where Abaddon had tossed her. Her power is easier to see now, without a meat suit to contain it, while she pushes herself up with the claws that take the place of her forelimbs. Sharp pointed tails lash towards Abaddon, straining to attack.

“Your Lord was a fool and a coward, hiding behind his deals.”

“Crowley? No.” The demon falls back, laughing. “I made my choice long ago. Before he was freed and after he was caged again.”

Abaddon raises an eyebrow as she watches the other demon. The locusts have vanished, eaten or dissolved away by her true form. “A loyalist then.”

“A true believer,” she retorts. “Not that there are many of those left.”

Abaddon moves, grabbing the other demon by the throat and pulling her into herself. It is nothing to check her motivations, her loyalties, her very self. Little but hatred remains in the demon, save something like self-preservation and what could pass as affection for… an angel. Not trustworthy, but predictable.

Tilting her head, Abaddon pushes Meg out and away, sending her sprawling back across the floor. The Seal she tosses at her, watching as Meg smoothly changes a claw into a hand-- thumbs are very useful-- and grabs the ring from mid-air.

“What would you have of me, your highness?” Meg bows deeply.

“Find me a way to Earth. Find me Crowley,” Abaddon hisses.

* * *

Kevin drags Castiel towards the dials as soon as they return. Castiel had planned on following Dean into the shower, and, hopefully, bed, but Kevin demanded his attention first. In any case, Dean clearly wanted some time alone before they begin to figure out their next steps.

The alarms and instruments are intricate work, completed by master craftsmen, with no clear purpose that Castiel can divine. The labels are clear enough-- Demons, Æther, Warning-- but without more information, there’s no way to determine what qualifies as an alarming reading.

He and Kevin discuss the lockdown until Kevin is glancing at his watch and yawning. Castiel follows him down the hall until he’s standing outside Dean’s door. Kevin lifts his hand in good night before heading further down the hall, around the bend.

Breathing out, Castiel taps the door with his knuckles and waits for Dean to respond. Yet another thing he’s been thoroughly educated in. It really feels like… everything… important came after Dean’s presence in his life.

Pushing the door open, he watches Dean busily clean a shotgun, giant headphones pulled over his ears. “Dean?”

Dean nearly drops the barrel, fumbling it back onto the desk with one hand as he pushes back his headphones. “What’s up?”

Castiel leans against the doorway and looks around the room. “It’s… late. I thought maybe I would…” He trails off, no idea how to say what he wants.

Dean watches him for a moment before looking at the clock by his bed, two in the morning glowing red. “I want to get this done. Not ready to sleep yet.”

Castiel nods, picking up a whetstone and several of the knives before sitting on the small couch. “I’ll help.”

Dean nods, reaching over to unplug the headphones from the record player and turning down the volume before settling back down at the desk. They work companionably through the remainder of the album and a second one. Dean tucks everything back into the duffle he uses to carry them before stretching and staring blankly at the bed.

Castiel is silent as he watches Dean get ready for bed, dropping his flannel over the back of the chair, lining his boots up next to the bed, and changing from jeans into sleep pants. It’s only when he reaches for the bedside lamp that he seems to realize that Castiel is still present. “If you want to stay--”

Forcing a serenity he doesn’t feel, Castiel picks up one of the folders on the desk-- Lamiak Populations in North America-- before making himself comfortable on the loveseat. “I don’t need sleep. But if you’re amenable, I find myself in need of company tonight.”

Dean looks at him for a long moment, before nodding and turning the desk lamp on. “Sure, dude. Just don’t spend all night watching me or whatever.”

“Of course not.”

He expects Dean to fall asleep quickly, if not soundly, but he doesn’t. Instead, he restlessly tosses and turns for a long time before sitting up and throwing his pillow to the ground. “I… don’t even know which angel took him,” Dean whispers in the dim light. “I asked, but he-- they-- just took off like it was nothing. How did he’d even get consent?”

Cas shrugs. “It wouldn’t be hard for any angel to get consent. Angels can enter dreams, manipulate them.”

“Not really the most reassuring thing you’ve ever said,” Dean mutters.

Castiel flips the file closed and turns off the lamp, before toeing off his shoes and making his way to the other side of the bed. “We need more information before we can find Sam. To do that, you need sleep.”

“How the fuck was I that stupid?” Dean mumbles as Castiel settles against the headboard. Leaning over, he drags his pillow back onto the bed, punching it into submission before flopping down. “Just let me get my four hours. We can pick up after that,”

“Having faith isn’t stupid, Dean.” Slowly, Castiel rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I couldn’t respond in time.”

Dean huffs and flings an arm over Castiel’s legs. “My fault. Don’t worry about it.”

Castiel frowns in the dark, but Dean’s breathing evens out into sleep before he can respond.

* * *

Dean rolls over, away from the drowsy warmth. His collarbone and the claw marks scream back into awareness, catapulting him from sleep. “Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking pogo stick!”

A hand comes the head of the bed, pressing into the muscle. The warmth does as much to soothe the pain as the whisper of grace that follows it. Immediately, Dean’s face flushes as he realizes he’s been cuddling into Cas.

“Dean? Did that help?” Cas asks quietly.

He rolls his shoulder slightly to test it. “Feels better than it did.” Pushing himself out of bed, he grabs his flannel and shrugs it on. Cas is still sitting on the bed, Dean’s phone balanced on his thigh and open to… something.

“I’m gonna--” Dean jerks his thumb towards the rest of the Bunker before fleeing.

Showering gives him enough time to get his head on straight and figure out the game plan for the day.

Kevin shuffles into the kitchen almost as soon as the coffee finishes brewing, pouring himself a cup and dropping his computer at the kitchen table. “What barely legal thing are we doing today?”

Dean pauses in his fridge rummage to look at Kevin. He’s pale and exhausted, carrying around the coffee cup like his life depends on it. Making a snap decision, Dean pulls the eggs from the fridge and bacon and hashbrowns from the freezer. “ _We’re_ not doing anything,” he says, depositing breakfast on the counter. “I’m going to make a call, see if I can get someone here to take you out while I see what I can dig up on Sam.”

“I don’t need a--”

Dean cuts him off. “Until I know that you’re safe? Yeah. You do.” Sighing, he turns around to face Kevin, leaning against the counter. “I don’t need another thing to worry about and you need to get out of here before you lose your goddamn mind.”

Kevin looks down at his laptop before looking back up. “Did Cas tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“While you were dicking around, dealing with Hell, my mom _died_ ,” Kevin spits out. “I hid in her fucking heaven.”

“Kev…” Dean starts.

“Fuck you, Winchester. You got Mom killed. Take your babysitter and shove it up your ass.” Kevin slams his coffee mug down and darts from the room.

Cas steps aside to let him pass before slowly entering the kitchen. “Is Kevin…”

Dean blows out a breath before turning back to the stove. “No, he’s not. You didn’t tell me his mom died.”

Cas is silent behind him.

“Great. Just great. Anything else? Another apocalypse, maybe? Or more Purgatory bullshit?” Slamming everything back into the fridge, Dean swipes a beer and drops down at the table. “First Sam, now Linda. Anyone else I’ve failed, Cas? Charlie or Henry? Hell, you?”

“You didn’t fail Ms. Tran,” Cas says fiercely. He reaches over Dean’s shoulder to grab the beer and replaces it with a cup of coffee. “Or me, or Sam. We will figure it out. We always do.”

“Last I checked, we couldn’t bring people back from the dead, Cas.”

“So we avenge her death. Take care of Kevin.”

Closing his eyes, Dean takes several deep breaths, waiting for the constant vague panic to recede enough that he can function. “Yeah. Alright.”

He’s not hungry anymore, so he picks up his coffee and Kevin’s computer and heads back to the library where Sam’s computer waits. Most of the news alerts needed to search for Sam are already up and running-- one angel possession is much like another-- so he starts looking for Jane Does that fit Linda’s description.

They failed at protecting her in life, but he can make sure she’s properly laid to rest.

* * *

Castiel goes to find Kevin after a while. “They never would have left her if they actually thought she was in danger,” he starts, leaning against the door frame of Kevin’s room. “Or even suspected it.”

“Don’t apologize for them,” Kevin grinds out, shoving some clothes into a backpack. “They knew what they were doing.”

“They had some awareness of the risks, yes.” Castiel shifts awkwardly against the door frame. “However, until we know more, it’s ridiculous to expect Sam and Dean to have foreseen the consequences of Linda being on her own.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to make me feel guilty about being angry.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m… encouraging you to think.”

“I _think_ that my mom’s dead and the gates of Hell-- my way out-- are still open. I’m stuck in this place with the people who got my mom _murdered_.”

“You are a prophet of the Lord, Kevin, and will be until the moment of your death.”

“Great. Helpful, Cas. Really. I’m stuck with this bullshit until I die. Maybe I should just go do that then.”

“Kevin--”

“Shut up, Cas. You’re just as bad as them. You let her die.”

“No, I didn’t.” Castiel pushes himself to stand straight. “It is unfortunate, and I am deeply sorry and sympathetic. But her death does not lie at our hands. I will assist you in figuring out who caused her death, we all will help you find vengeance if that is a thing you desire, but your blame needs to be pointed towards someone who deserves it.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Kevin sinks onto his bed.

“The Bunker is the safest place for you, however angry you may be. I will not allow you to compromise your safety because you are upset.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

“And I won’t. But there is a world of difference between those two things.”

“I’m just gonna be stuck with a babysitter every time I leave the Bunker.”

“Until we can guarantee your safety, yes.”

“Fine. Get out.”

Castiel thinks about saying something else, something soothing, but there’s nothing to say.

* * *

The longer he wanders, the more he wonders why he is taking precautions against demons. Despite Castiel’s stories, and the news he received from his brethren, demons are scarcely around every corner. His biggest worry is other angels.

Their voices still resound from Earth, dozens of angels taking their first opportunity for more earthly pleasures in centuries. Naomi-- or whoever is taking the position of First-- will have their work cut out forcing them all back to Heaven.

He crisscrosses the globe, stretching his wings for the first time since humanity gained sentience. Every couple of stops, he diverts a small trickle of grace to heal Sam of some minor hurt-- healing a scar or a burn, straightening a poorly healed break-- until all that remains is the grace burns. His mental trauma is likely permanent, as is the loose fit of his soul to his body, but Gadreel has done his duty and healed him. Anything else will require more grace than he wants to expend.

Now, he just needs to determine the best way to stay hidden from the others.

* * *

Sam’s hiking along a two-lane blacktop, when he gets blown off the road by a truck speeding past him. He stumbles over a broken bit of asphalt, tripping and nearly falling.

He gets off the road, standing in the scrub and bushes that line the hill. He doesn’t recognize this, wherever he is. And he has _no idea_ how he got here.

Carefully, he returns to the road and starts walking while he thinks things over. He doesn’t know where he is, but it’s chilly and wet enough he’s glad he has a jacket on over his flannel. He’s… absolutely starving, not that there’s anything to be done about that right now, and, possibly most important, he doesn’t remember anything since the Church.

A four-door rustbucket speeds past him before pulling off the road in a wide spot. The driver flips on their emergency flashers and opens the door, lifting a hand to wave. “Need a ride?”

“Please.” Glancing at the license plate-- Washington state-- Sam hurries toward the car.

The interior of the car is only slightly better than the exterior, but it’s warm and dry. The driver reaches over and tosses a straining backpack into the rear seat, shuffling some empty fast food bags while he does. “Just… push all of that onto the floor. It’s trash.” The kid is young, _maybe_ eighteen, and his accent doesn’t belong here. Louisiana, maybe, or Mississippi. Somewhere warmer.

Sam slides into the passenger seat, crushing the bags under foot his knees almost touching his chest. “Thanks, man.”

“Cy,” the kid offers. “And it’s not a big deal. You’re not the first stranded tourist I’ve rescued.”

“Sure.” The forest on the hillside thickens as they drive, encroaching on the road. “Where are we?”

“Forks, Washington.” Cy looks at him skeptically before focusing on the road. “Public intoxication is still a crime, ya know.”

“Public… I’m not _high_.” Sam blinks rapidly, slotting things into place. “I just need a ride into town. I’ll figure out how to get home from there.”

Cy says nothing, driving them the rest of the way into town and dropping Sam off in front of a general store.

The entire town is braced for an onslaught, Twilight posters and vampires in almost every store window, bracketed by the same overpriced tourist shit that Sam sees in almost every city. It’s a nightmare.

Stopping into the store gets him a phone charger and directions to a coffee shop where he can charge his phone and get a bite to eat. It’s all given grudgingly, like the only reason he’s even getting this much is because he’s paying cash.

A cup of coffee and veggie plate later, his phone has enough charge to turn on and he’s blasted with missed calls, voicemails, and text messages. Sam fumbles the phone onto silent as soon as the first notification comes through, his phone buzzing and vibrating off the table.

Jesus, how much time is he _missing_?

Ignoring everything else, Sam calls Dean.

“Sam?” Dean answers.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Thank _Christ_ ,” Dean laughs. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been looking all over for you, man.” Dean sounds suspiciously drunk, but Sam doesn’t hear bar sounds. Probably in the Bunker then, mostly safe.

Good.

“No idea where I was,” Sam admits. “I’m in Forks, Washington now.”

“What the hell are you doing there?”

“I don’t know. I was in the church and then I was walking along the highway.”

“The church…” Dean says slowly. “Sammy, that was _two weeks ago_.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things before you start the new chapter:  
> 1) I've updated the tags above to be accurate through chapter 31. As promised, no big changes, but I've added some smaller ones. And again, if you think I've missed one, let me know so I can add it.  
> 2) Having spent the last two weeks in an editing haze, I have enough of a buffer to start posting every week. So the next chapter will be up **December 26**.

“I don’t know, man.” Dean pulls open the Bunker door with his free hand. “One minute, fucking prayer was my best option, the next, you’re all angel’d up and disappearing.”

“And I just _let_ them? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. They must have done _something_ to get you to agree.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “You don’t remember anything at all?”

“A few flashes,” Sam says, frowning. “Landscapes, mostly. Like we were touring the world. Until I got to Forks.”

Dean scowls at the floor. “Whatever. I’ll look the gift horse in the mouth when it shows up to bite us in the ass.”

“Yeah. We know how that goes.” Sam huffs. “I’m gonna get cleaned up.”

Dean watches Sam duck through the library, heading towards their bedrooms. Breathing out, he lets himself feel the lingering bits of being Abaddon’s chew toy before heading into the kitchen.

Cas is curled around a cup of coffee at the table and reading a file in an exhausted, mostly-human, haze. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and Dean can’t really blame him, but something major went down.

He takes a moment to rest his hand on Cas’s shoulder. Cas’s hand comes up to rest over his, squeezing gently before falling back down to turn the page.

“Find anything interesting?” Dean asks.

“A possession out of Cedar Rapids, during your Great Depression. The demon was captured by a party of hunters and brought to the nearest chapter house for interrogation.”

Dean raises an eyebrow before he starts putting away the groceries. “Okay, and?”

“It was the first reporting in nearly seventy years of _any_ of the Knights,” Cas says flatly, twisting around to watch Dean. “And the first record I can find claiming all the Knights but one were dead.”

“Abaddon?” Dean glances over.

“The last one.” Cas looks up, mouth twisting into a smile. “The demon didn’t know how of course, but I suspect it was archangels.”

“They weren’t bragging about it? Doesn’t seem like their style.”

“It’s not. And even if it was, I don’t know who: Michael would have been focused on preparing for the apocalypse, Gabriel was already in his ‘witness protection’ program.” Cas makes finger quotes before dropping his hands back around his (empty) coffee cup. “I don’t know what Raphael was doing, but presumably watching over a series of prophets. Maybe they took the time to exterminate the Knights-- it would be within their purview.”

“Speaking of prophets, where’s ours?” Dean frowns.

“Charlie texted earlier. They’re on a campus tour of a Baptist school in northeast Kansas City today.”

“Are they serious? Kev’ll be miserable there.”

“Charlie wasn’t happy.” Cas blows out a sigh. “Are you certain this is our best course of action?”

“No, but I don't know what else to do with him. The kid’s pissed and not talking to us-- which I get-- and needs to do something besides stare at books all day. Charlie’s the most normal out of all of us, maybe she’ll be better.” Dean holds back his own sigh, staring bleakly at the fridge.

Cas pulls Dean into a hug. This is new, but the comforting sort. Dean can see where the hugs and bed sharing-- even if Cas doesn’t sleep-- and occasional touches are heading, has been able to see it for years, but for the first time, it’s not terrifying.

They’re sitting side by side at the table by the time Sam comes in, absorbed in old case files-- Cas-- and looking for a new hunt-- Dean.

Sam pauses in the doorway. “There a reason we’re working in here?”

“The coffee pot is in here,” Cas answers, flipping the file closed and reaching for another one. “While the caffeine does very little for me, the scent is stimulating.”

“Uh… sure.” Sam blinks and slides onto one of the seats opposite them, snagging a pile of files to flip through. “Knights of Hell?”

“Knight, singular,” Dean says, reaching over to grab Sam a cup of coffee. “The rest are dead, probably due to archangels, for just short of a century. Looks like we let her loose.” He bites back the rest-- there’s no point in beating themselves up about it now.

“Anything newer? Or non-demonic?”

Dean sighs and passes Sam his notepad. “Pick a direction. We’ve got just about every sort of nasty you can think of, and that’s just what I can ID off a newspaper article. I’m trying to narrow things down a bit.”

Sam’s eyebrows go up as he sees the list. “Wasn’t there an ōkami in Fargo?”

Dean frowns, but flips open the laptop on the table, quickly scanning newspapers before passing the laptop to Sam. “Not that I’m seeing. Where’d you hear that?”

“I thought… never mind. We’ve got enough choice as it is.”

“Yeah, Cas and I do. You stay home and rest.” Dean swallows, pressing his leg against Cas’s for a moment before standing. “Cas and I’ll take care of one, swing back and pick you up when we’re through.”

“Dean, I--”

Dean cuts him off. “You were nearly dead and then disappeared for two weeks. You’re staying here.” Dean claps Cas on the shoulder before leaving the room. “Wheels up in forty-five, Cas.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas agrees easily, shifting the papers into piles on the empty end of the table. “I’ll be ready.”

* * *

Castiel waits until Dean is out of the kitchen before meeting Sam’s eyes. “Since the angel who healed you is unknown, do I have your permission to double check their work?”

Sam shrugs and shifts closer. “Sure, Cas. Knock yourself out.”

Reaching out with his grace, Castiel feels around the edges of Sam’s soul for stress before moving on. There’s something strange about the traces of grace left behind by their mystery angel--

Cas blinks and sags against the table before taking a long drink of the lukewarm coffee in front of him.

Sam looks at him, concern evident. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Sam. My grace apparently hasn’t recovered as much as I thought.” Which is… worrisome, but not something he needs to concern the Winchesters with. He’s not recovered from the _Commah Siatris Ondon_ and having a large amount of grace lopped off though, maybe it’s that.

“Hey, Cas. C’mon! Have you even moved?” Dean cuts off Castiel’s train of thought.

“Stop being impatient. You said forty-five minutes.” Frowning, Castiel glances at the clock on the wall. “I have--”

“That was an hour ago,” Dean cuts him off. “Sam?”

“I don’t... I guess it just took us that long,” Sam says slowly. “But I’m good, right Cas?”

Castiel fumbles for what he discovered, relief flooding him when he remembers it easily. “Whoever the angel was, they did an admirable job. The burns and other trauma are almost entirely healed.” He smiles, glancing over at Dean. “Another few days and there won’t be any sign at all.”

“Awesome.” Dean claps his hands together. “When we’re back, we’ll find something for all three of us.”

Ten minutes later, they’re in the Impala and heading towards Colorado.

* * *

Looking at the list of possible hunts Dean left behind, Sam groans before getting a beer and dragging everything back to the library. The last thing he wants to do is remember mangled corpses while eating dinner.

The list isn’t as bad as it could be, a dozen or so potential cases amid the scratch outs and a list of names. It looks like Dean got other hunters to take care of the time sensitive ones while he looked for Sam

He shoots a text to the hunters he knows, checking in to make sure everything is okay before diving into the other potentials.

Two of the cases he dismisses out of hand. They might be something, they might not, but the three sentence blurbs he can find in the newspaper tell him nothing. Miracles or freak accidents, it’s hard to tell without having more people on the ground.

The others are something that is going to require intervention. Shifters and maybe a nest of vampires, probably a werewolf, and a few ghosts. Possibly a mothman out in North Carolina, but he’s not hurting anything besides some racoons. Nothing out of the ordinary for a national search.

Sam spends a few hours putting files together so they can hit up a bunch of hunts in one trip once Dean and Cas get back.

That done, he resumes Cas’s research into the Knights of Hell and how to kill them.

The next time Sam looks at the clock, it’s almost ten. He’s not tired, although now that he’s paying attention, he thinks he should probably eat something and go to bed.

* * *

The Museum of Colorado Prisons isn’t much, a single cell block barely upgraded since it was built in the thirties. A stone’s throw from the still operating prison though, and within the fenced perimeter, the security gives Dean the willies.

Nothing good can come from being this close to a state prison, not with his record.

Cas settles his trench coat on his shoulders before double checking his ID is in the correct pocket. “Are you certain this will work?”

Dean grins absently, still distracted by the walls a few feet away. “Of course it will. Museums love free press.”

Cas looks at the doors dubiously, but doesn’t say anything.

Dean’s not feeling real secure about it either, but what choice do they have? At least the museum holds regular ‘paranormal investigation’ overnights, so a couple more sketchy guys waving around EMF meters won’t raise any alarms.

“You remember where things are?”

“Of course.” Cas rolls his eyes. “Ghostly fires with no ignition point and gunshots with no guns are _so_ common.”

“Asshole,” Dean mutters, slapping Cas’s shoulder. “Well, let’s get our journalist on then, I guess.”

Ponying up the admission fee for both of them, Dean checks out the security as unobtrusively as he can while Cas distracts the clerk looking for a coat room. It’s pretty tight security for a museum-- although, again, there’s a prison next door, so maybe not-- but nothing out of the ordinary.

The first few rooms-- gift shop, the hallway towards the cells/ exhibits, and some staff only areas-- are pretty normal with barely a blip on the EMF (there are a few artifacts Dean wants to burn just in case-- Alferd Packer was well on his way to becoming a wendigo-- but that’s par for the course in any decent museum). The lower level though…

Nothing pops on the EMF and he can’t find anything else ghost-like either, but something _definitely_ haunting the isolation room. The florescent bulbs, already dimmer than the ones upstairs, flicker wildly and the cinder block walls somehow make the room darker, absorbing the bright sunshine that streams in through the window. A streaky mirror attached to the brick above the sink only makes things worse. Looking directly at it, the reflections waver and tilt and there’s something hovering over Dean’s shoulder-- something that can’t be seen with the naked eye-- while he looks around the room.

Backing out rapidly, Dean shudders and heads next door, to the original kitchen for the cell block where Cas is staring at something in the industrial steel, head tilted curiously.

“Can you--” Dean starts, before something moves in the blurred reflection of the sink. “It’s in here too.”

Slowly-- too slowly-- Cas glances at the sink. “I agree.” His face distorts, flesh hanging off his skull, demon red eyes looking at Dean, just long enough for Dean suck in a breath, before he nods. “A creature of some variety, not a ghost.”

The lights dim further as a cloud passes over the sun and Dean has had enough. “Awesome. Let’s get out of here and figure out what we’re dealing with.”

Cas nods distractedly, his eyes darting around the room.

Dean shudders again and grabs Cas’s arm, dragging him out of the building.

* * *

“I don’t really think you’d be happy here, Kev,” Charlie points out over the breakfast table. “It’s not a bad school, it’s just…”

“Really flippin’ conservative.” Kevin sighs into his coffee. “But it’s close enough to keep Dean happy.”

“Fuck what he thinks,” Charlie snarls. “This is your life. Yeah, it’d be good if you stayed close enough the Wonder Trio could get to you quickly, but we’ll make it work if you don’t want to.”

Kevin frowns, poking at the crappy continental breakfast put out by the hotel. He’s got the grades to get in here, yeah. But Charlie’s right-- this is a small, private, _religious_ school, and not even remotely the sort of place he would have looked at before everything happened. At the same time, Princeton isn’t even remotely a possibility. “Two more and we’ll call it quits. I’ll go to school online or something.” And face the people who allowed his mom to get killed on a daily basis, somehow without going mental. God, he _needs_ to get out of the Bunker.

“Alright!” Charlie grins at him and pulls her laptop out, connecting to the crappy wi-fi. “Where are we going?”

“The big state schools, Missouri and Kansas. I can disappear into the crowd there.”

“We’ll add K-State too, since it’s on the way back to the Bunker.” Charlie happily types for a few minutes. “Let’s see… Missouri on Monday and both KU and K-State on Tuesday,” Charlie says, looking up. “Which leaves us the weekend to kill. Unless you want to head back to the Bunker now.”

Swallowing, Kevin meets her eyes. “Hell no. Maybe spend some time around here? I know there’s a giant research library in the city.”

“What’s this really about?”

“I want to know what happened to my mom! Dean said he’d--” he breaks off, suddenly aware of everyone watching them. “Something happened, something terrible, and I have no idea what.”

Charlie nods, drinking her orange juice. “Let’s finish up here and we’ll head into Kansas City. See what we can dig up.”

A couple hours later, Kevin is set up at a public terminal at the library with the log-in for the digitized newspaper archives, scanning through the articles day by day. He plugs in his headphones and just starts running through the articles, looking for his mom.

Charlie has the fun job, checking databases and credit cards for any trace of her. Occasionally, he glances over to see crime scene photos in lurid detail splashed across her screen while she checks some detail or another.

Kevin nearly gags at the sight of a young woman brutally hacked to pieces in her bed.

“Yeah, I think that one’s a hunt,” Charlie says quietly, minimizing the window and pulling up her email. “I’m gonna forward it on, let someone else deal with it.”

Nodding, Kevin returns to his screen and starts searching through again. He’s wading through yet another missing persons article when he realizes that he might be able to cut down on the number of possibilities significantly.

_< < Hey, Cas. Do you know the names of other potential prophets? Who’ll take over if I die?_

He makes it through a couple more articles before his phone buzzes again.

_> > Chuck Shurley, Kevin Tran, Donatello Redfield, Antonio Alvarez, Luigi Ponzi, Justin Hunt, Aaron Webber, Maria Rodriguez, Dennis Adams, Krista Andrews, and Sven Karlsson. The others haven’t been born yet. _

_< < Thanks._

Starting a new search, Kevin starts pulling up their social media profiles that he can find and uses that to find the names of any missing family.

It takes all day, but finally, _finally_ , he can narrow down the search area for Charlie. “Wichita. Check around Wichita.”

“You think?” Charlie shakes her head before pulling up the appropriate databases. “Okay, let’s give it a go…”

They find his mom by dinner time, too late to claim her, but at least he knows where they need go.

* * *

“Thank you for your help,” Dean says sincerely as the library volunteer shuffles them out the door so she can lock up for the night. He waves a little before following Cas to the Impala. “What do you think?”

Cas pauses before shrugging out of his suit jacket and tossing it into the back seat. “I think that for a museum that has a history of fires with no origin point, gunfire without any guns, and ghostly rioters, it is remarkably… not haunted.”

“There’s something there,” Dean starts. “In the basement.”

“Old and dark and hungry, yes,” Cas interrupts. “But not the source of what drew us here.”

“Something’s using the supposed haunting to cover its tracks. No one’s going to look too hard at the occasional dead prisoner and having the lair outside the prison walls…” Dean grimaces, pulling open the car door and sliding into the driver’s seat. “What is this thing, the boogeyman?”

Cas hmms beside him. “Maybe.”

“Boogeymen don’t go after adults,” Dean says as he swings the car around. “Kids, sure. Occasionally traumatized teenagers. But adults?”

“And how many victims of the criminal justice system in this country aren’t traumatized?” Cas points out. “It’s a captive feeding pool of people no one cares about. Done intelligently, a population of seven hundred could feed an entire family for _years_.” He’s silent for a moment before continuing, “I’m actually surprised that more creatures don’t make use of the model.”

“Let’s be happy they don’t,” Dean says. “Investigating prisons _sucks_ , and I’m not as willing to get the crap beat out of me as I used to be.”

“Your justifiable reluctance is mirrored by every hunter, and as a result, anytime there is a hunt inside a prison, it goes unresolved.” Cas’s put some thought into this.

Dean quirks his eyebrows but lets it go. It’s not like Cas is wrong, and he’s had enough arguments with Sam about it for Cas to know that Dean knows.

“Also, that we both reacted so strongly to the lair would indicate this one has adapted to the food supply at hand,” Cas says, slightly calmer. “We are both--”

“Who let you watch Dr. Phil anyway?” Dean bites out. “Any ideas on what type of boogeyman? There’s dozens.”

“Even with my grace depleted, I don’t need much sleep and Dr. Phil is informative,” Cas shoots back. “And no. We need more information.”

“Guess we’re going in with the nerds tonight after all.” Dean sighs and heads back to the motel. They’ve barely got enough time to get changed and find something to eat before they’re due back at the prison for the overnight.

Scarfing down cheap burgers from the Wendy’s next door, they change out of their suits into jeans and t-shirts, layering to hide their weapons.

It doesn’t take much to blend in with the crowd of GhostFacer wannabes milling around the courtyard in front of the museum, waving around video cameras and EMF meters bought off the internet.

A team of three with less tech and suspiciously heavy pockets Dean pegs as civilians who might actually survive long enough to become hunters hovers near the staircase, glancing up nervously. Probably think some rock salt and-- Dean tilts his head as the leader shoves his hand into his pocket, tightening his grip on something-- a pair of brass knuckles will take care of any ghost while the other two find the remains.

(If this place was actually haunted, Dean would put the fear of god into them and get them out of the way. Instead, they can provide a nice distraction while he and Cas take care of the _actual_ threat.)

Another ‘team’ huddles together about fifteen feet away, out of the wind. A pimply high schooler whispers a ghost story to the gathered group, his voice rising as he reaches the conclusion. On cue, the girl beside him-- skinny, wearing all black and a bunch of dime store protection charms-- goes into a near faint before proclaiming that she can feel the presence of a spirit.

Leaning against one of the outbuildings, Dean glances at Cas next to him. “What would you look like to a psychic anyway?” he asks, not bothering to stay quiet. “Assuming our goth-y friend over there is the real deal, of course.”

“Unless she is exceedingly ill-trained, and poorly mannered to boot, she won’t find out,” Cas says, his voice loud enough to carry.

From the way the girl stiffens, she heard him. Dean chuckles as she guides her friends away to get lost in the crowd. “So you’re not going to burn her eyes out then?”

“Not as long as I’m in a vessel, no. But a migraine would be likely.”

Dean watches the groups move and shift, more than a few shivering in the early April breeze as the sun sets behind the mountains. Jerking his eyes away, he glances up at the guard tower at the corner of the courtyard, where the museum grounds share a wall with the prison.

The spotlight in the guard tower lights up just as the sun disappears, starting a slow rotation-- like a light house-- gradually covering all of the museum grounds before moving on.

Dazzled by the light, he almost doesn’t see it-- a shaggy shadow perched on top of the wall, immediately below the guard tower. It’s too dark to see the thing’s face, but there might be a red glint in the general vicinity of the eyes.

“Cas,” he hisses. “Top of the wall, below the guard tower.” He doesn’t dare blink.

Cas freezes next to him, eyes fixed to the same spot. “Dean, that’s--” he breaks off.

“Waiting on its next meal, yeah.” As they watch, the thing drops behind the wall and out of sight. “Shit.”

There’s a loud clamor at the top of the stairs into the museum when the volunteers open the doors, allowing the milling crowd into the building. “Okay, investigators, everything’s set up inside, so we can get started.” The crowd lurches up the stairs, including goth girl, looking spooked.

Dean glances back up to the top of the wall. “What do you think?”

Cas tilts his head and considers for a moment before following the crowd. “I think we need to kill the monster before it hurts anyone else.”

“Yes, thanks for that. Any ideas on how to lure it back here, Sherlock?”

Cas ignores him, striding confidently across the courtyard and up the stairs.

“Awesome,” Dean mutters before following him.

* * *

Castiel is beginning to understand why Sam and Dean prefer empty buildings while working. Everywhere he turns, there’s another human complaining about the camera positioning or picture quality. It’s as inane as the Ghostfacers were, possibly more so.

He and Dean quickly establish themselves as experimenters, trying a new form of detection equipment in the area surrounding the kitchen and isolation room downstairs. There’s almost no camera coverage there-- the kids in charge of positioning the cameras were eager to get out-- so as long as they agree to move the cameras as they’re asked, the others leave them alone.

Dean rolls his eyes behind the earnest young man’s back, but accepts the walkie talkie and clips it to his belt.

The area around the lair is even more unnerving than it was during the day. Whispers echo down the hallway, filling his ears with the same lies and disgust as Naomi. He’s constantly checking on Dean, only reluctantly entering the isolation room where the worst of the miasma is coming from.

The room tilts and wavers, the walls bulging and bleeding.

“Cas!” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder, dragging him out of the room and into the relative safety of the hallway. “Okay?”

Castiel huffs. “Does it matter? We need to take care of this.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t disagree. “Alright. Together then. Should keep the worst of it at bay.”

Castiel pretends not to notice Dean’s flinches in the isolation room, how his eyes constantly slide from the wall to Castiel with a frown. Since he’s doing the same thing, Castiel is certain this is one of those things that is never appropriate to discuss.

The radio squawks, “Eagle two? One of the cameras has slipped out of alignment again.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes before yanking it off his belt. “Which camera, Nest? Need a lot more info than just ‘one of them.’”

Castiel ignores the rest of the exchange, following Dean out into the hallway so he can get a better grasp on what’s going on. Dean reaches up to push a camera around, aiming it down the hallway and away from where they’re working.

Stepping back, Dean glares at the section of wall between the isolation door and the kitchen. “It’s been a while since I hunted a fucking boogeyman. How much room do these things need?”

“It’s a shapeshifter. Or a variant anyway.” Castiel looks at the wall again before shrugging. “It could easily fit inside the wall or an air vent.”

“Awesome.” Dean grimaces and shuts his eyes as he faces the kitchen. “We know it’s not getting in through the isolation room, so let’s find the entrance point.”

They get faster at ignoring the hallucinations, the skittering of rats behind them or a reflection’s movement in the stainless steel appliances.

Most of the fixtures on the shared wall between the kitchen and isolation room are bolted into place, permanently attached to the brick. Dean mumbles something about it being a sensible precaution in a prison known for its riots, but it slows their search down. They’re less than halfway along the wall when Castiel hears footsteps.

“Dean, stop.” There it is again, boots on a linoleum floor. “There’s someone in the hallway.”

Dean freezes immediately, the box of kitchen utensils he’s holding jangling quietly.

“Crap,” Dean says quietly. He silently shifts the box onto the counter before glancing over at Castiel. “I’ll take care of whoever that is, get them back to the group. You keep searching.”

Sucking in a breath and ignoring the whispers that are rapidly filling the room, Castiel nods. “I can handle it.”

Dean nods before heading out into the hallway, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. Cas keeps half an ear on the conversation in the hall, but mostly focuses on figuring out where the boogeyman’s lair is.

Blowing out a breath, Castiel pulls the freezer away from the wall, only to find a hole behind it, more than large enough for a boogeyman to lair in. He jumps backwards, tripping over a buckle in the cheap tile, and falling away from the hole with a crash.

“Cas!” Dean shouts, dashing in.

“I’m alright,” Castiel says, raising a hand. “Just tripped.”

Dean frowns before glancing behind him. “You’ve never done that before.”

“It’s not a--” Castiel cuts himself off when the young woman in all black slides in through the open door.

“We’re talking about this later,” Dean barks before turning around. “What the hell, lady, you can’t just barge in here.”

The girl is silent, taking in the utter destruction of the kitchen before focusing on the hole in the wall. “Oh god, it’s real.”

“No, _really_. You can’t be in here.” Dean scowls. “Something about delicate equipment and readings.”

“That’s Joseph’s cameras, out in the hall,” she says absently, still staring at the entrance to lair. “Not in here. No one even likes to admit this place _exists_.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks sharply.

“Joseph and Justin, the ones with all the cameras. Everyone knows it’s creepy as fuck down here, so they only set cameras in the hallways-- can’t stand to be in the kitchen or iso room long enough to even set things up. In months of doing these investigations, you two are the only ones who bee-lined down here like you had a mission.”

“What about you?”

“This place isn’t haunted, I know that much. I don’t know what is down here, but it’s not a ghost.”

Castiel looks at her sharply before shaking his head and calling Dean over. “Come take a look at this.”

Dean’s at his side in an instant, grimacing, the girl trailing after him. “You found it.”

The aura of terror and paranoia lifts for a brief moment as Castiel preens under the praise; a breath of badly needed fresh air. Then the fog descends again, along with the hallucinations out of the corner of his eye and pressure on his chest.

Visibly steeling himself, Dean reaches towards the jagged hole in the whitewashed cinder block.

“No!” The girl nearly screams, cowering against the kitchen island. “Don’t touch it.”

Cas squeezes Dean’s shoulder before guiding her to the far side of the kitchen. “We’re professionals. Dean can handle it.”

She ignores him, watching in horrified fascination as Dean gingerly sticks his hand inside, feeling around. She sobs when Dean sticks his arm in further, almost to the elbow, reaching for something.

Dean looks over. “Sweetheart, stop. I’m fine, see? It’s out hunting anyway.”

“What’s your name?” Castiel asks to distract her since she won’t leave the kitchen. He tears a paper towel off the rolls nearby, handing it to her so she can wipe her eyes.

“Stephanie,” she says, splitting her attention between what Dean’s doing at the wall and the narrow window high on the outside wall. “I am, you know. Psychic, kinda. Mark doesn’t get it, thinks I’m making it all up.” She shudders. “But this place…”

“Mark is your…?”

“Boyfriend.” She snorts. “Sometimes. Mostly, he likes to have an audience. Which is why he’s upstairs with the J’s, making a fool of himself.”

“Why stay with him then?” Dean asks gently, still rooting around in the hole. “Even in high school--”

She grins, bright and brittle. “Ghost hunts are fun-- when there’s nothing real to them. And it’s not like I’m a useful kind of psychic. Surprising no one, prisons are depressing.”

Dean yanks his hand out of the wall, banging his knuckles on the edges, and pulls out a handful of brown fur. Stephanie shrieks at the thump, jumping.

“Stay here, okay?” Castiel tells Stephanie, hoping that she’ll listen.

“Sure,” she says shakily.

At least she’s stopped crying.

Dean is poking his prize with a cautious finger, separating the clump of rough brown fibers. “Is this… coconut?” He pauses for a long moment before looking up at Castiel. “Shit. We’re hunting a coco.”

* * *

Dean stares down at the handful of fiber, trying to keep his unease hidden from the civilian. Keeping a lid on things is hard enough when he can see movement in every reflective surface, hear the unsteady thump of his heart in counterpoint to everything else.

But hey, at least the walls have stopped bleeding.

A coco. Real boogeymen are rare enough, but a coco… He’s not seen one of those since he was a kid, and that was some weird hybrid between the Spanish coco and the French hand-cruncher. And that was bad enough, with only a kid’s nightmares for it draw on. Now… well, no wonder he’s having a hard time keeping his shit together.

“A coco?” the girl-- Stephanie, he reminds himself-- asks. “What’s that?”

“One of the more potent forms of boogeyman,” Cas answers distractedly. “Best known for being able to transform into a dragon.” Reaching out, he touches Dean’s shoulder again.

Pushing back the urge to drag Cas out of here-- fuck everyone else-- Dean briefly leans into the touch before dropping the hair on the counter, frantically racking his memory. Coco… Spanish, therefore Catholic, therefore-- “Consecrated silver, right, Cas?”

“A cloak of woven laurel and saffron, dipped in mercury, would be preferable, wrapped around it five times.”

“Sure, let me pull that out of my back pocket.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Besides, that doesn’t work if they’re in dragon form, and when are we _ever_ that lucky?”

“Yes, silver will work. Your sarcasm isn’t necessary or appreciated.”

“You want to wrap a _dragon_ in a cloak of… laurel and saffron? You’re insane,” Stephanie sputters. Pushing herself away from the counter, she starts towards the door. She freezes a split second before the lights go out.

Dean drops into a crouch, palming one of the knives from his waistband with one hand and waving frantically to get Stephanie under cover. The dim light from outside doesn’t illuminate much, just enough to reflect off her jewelry and show her silhouette. “Stephanie,” he hisses. “Move!”

She shakes her head, barely visible in the darkness.

Cas takes a slow step away, putting himself between her and the door. Dean doesn’t think the thing will be coming from that direction, but that’s easier for Cas to cover. The silver of his angel blade nearly glows in the darkness.

The room brightens a little bit, enough for Dean to fix their positions in his mind, before the rotating spotlight from the guard tower moves on, plunging the room back into near darkness.

A shadow creeps across the far window. It’s not very big-- the general size and shape of a rag doll-- and easily overlooked as a dropped toy next to the window if anyone stumbles upon it. A limb reaches up and tilts the window open a few inches before dropping through and onto the counter.

Dean loses sight of it in the deeper shadows beneath the window, catching only the scurry of movement as it jumps from box to box to counter top.

“You’re going to fail them,” a demonic voice whispers. “Cas is nearly human, he can _die_.” It gets louder, sick glee filling it. “And then he’s one of ours. Dragged to Hell like the fallen scum that he is. You can’t save him. Can’t save Sam either.”

The darkest shadows turn an unsettling greenish-crimson, the color of an infection just before it goes septic, as they bulge towards him.

Stephanie whimpers, still standing motionless in the center of the kitchen, paralyzed with fear.

The coco’s head, large out of proportion with the rest of its body, tilts to the side curiously. It’s red eyes blink twice before it drops down into a crouch.

Dean erupts from the floor, vaulting over the chest freezer to roughly shove Stephanie out of the way. He misjudges the distance in the dark, stumbles and lands heavily against the kitchen island.

The coco growls softly, growing and changing shapes with every sickening pulse of the walls. It jumps the gap between the counter and the island, suddenly the size of a German Shepherd with claws scrabbling on the metal top.

It doesn’t stop. A long, fur covered arm flashes out, trying to drag Stephanie closer, and burying its face in her back and sniffing.

Stephanie breaks, pulling herself free and sprinting for the door. The coco leaps after her, knocking her down and ripping open her back with heavy claws. The spray of blood against the metal is black in the dim light, blurring out the things moving in the reflection.

Cas kicks at it, tries to get it away from Stephanie, but it absorbs the shock somehow, twisting and growing, changing from some sort of monkey-monster into something else. Latching jaws around Cas’s ankle, it pushes up, claws digging further into Stephanie’s back.

Shaking himself, Dean jumps at the coco, jamming his knife into the thing’s side.

The coco doesn’t even notice, flinging Dean into the metal cabinets and continuing to savage Cas’s leg. The knife skitters out of Dean’s hand and under the island. Breathless, Dean rolls over to push himself back to his feet, dragging his machete out of his jacket.

It looks like some disastrous cross between a Komodo dragon and a tiger now, eight feet long and covered in furry scales. It shakes its head, ripping at Cas’s leg before dropping him, and rakes its claws one last time along Stephanie’s legs.

Stephanie screams, a hoarse breathless noise subsiding into a pained gurgle.

Dean motions at the coco with his free hand. “C’mon then. Let’s go.”

The coco shifts its weight, turning to look at Dean.

Cas screams as a claw digs into his chest, subsiding into a distinctive gurgle. Broken rib, at least one. Plus whatever those claws are doing.

Dean throws himself at the coco, machete held like a sword.

The bulk of the thing vanishes in an instant, leaving only the powerful tail behind. It slams into Dean, knocking him sideways and jamming the sharp corner of the island into his spine. His hand spasms with the impact, dropping the machete.

The coco jumps for him, transforming into a beach ball-sized spider, razor sharp legs cutting into him as it bowls him over.

Dean wraps his arms around it, ignoring the cuts, wrestling it away from Cas and Stephanie.

Inches long fangs dig into his shoulder, breaking open the remaining bruises and cuts from Abaddon. The coco is booted away from him like a soccer ball, tearing the fangs from Dean’s shoulder.

Dean _screams_.

“Get. Off. Him,” Cas pants out, lurching around the corner of the cabinets and falling heavily on his knees. He grabs a leg and yanks it backwards before burying his angel blade into the center.

* * *

Breathing heavily, Castiel pushes the coco’s steaming corpse away and crawls to kneel next to Stephanie. It takes far more effort than it should to redirect his guttering grace into her. He can barely heal the most life threatening of her wounds before he sprawls across the floor, exhausted.

He hazily watches Dean yank the radio from his belt, shouting for help from the civilians upstairs before he drifts off.

Awareness slams back into him when he’s lifted by an unfamiliar pair of arms and carefully moved up the stairs and towards the main entrance.

“Dude, the ambulance is here already, let it take your friend,” the human carrying him says lowly.

Dean’s voice is shot through with pain, although Castiel thinks the others probably can’t hear it. “We can’t-- Nothing official. He...”

“Oh.” The arms holding Castiel tighten slightly. “Right. Yeah, bad plan to bring him to the cops’ attention then. We’ll stash you some place out of the way until the cops leave.”

Dean mumbles something and Castiel feels a hand push his hair back from his face.

He loses time again, dragging his eyes open later in a office lit only by a lamp in the corner. “Dean?” He croaks out.

“Cas!” Dean is at his side in an instant, cradling his face in his hands. “Fuck, okay.” A water bottle is fumbled in front of Castiel’s mouth and he obediently takes a sip. “How you feeling?”

Taking another sip of water, Castiel thinks about it before responding, “Like the proverbial dogshit.”

“We can work with that.” Dean chuckles weakly and smiles down at him. “Wanna give me more detail?” He leans back in his chair, wincing.

“You’re hurt,” Castiel says, struggling to sit up. The pain he’s been ignoring spikes, burning its way across his chest.

“Jesus, Cas. Stay down!” Dean keeps his hand on his shoulder, pressing him back onto the couch. “I got off light compared to you.”

“Apparently,” Castiel says, taking inventory. His foot is resting on a box, wrapped in what looks like part of Dean’s overshirt. He can see blood seeping into the fabric, staining the gray material darker. There’s a general stabbing sensation in the vicinity of his ribs and his right arm isn’t moving how he wants it to. “Ribs are the worst, then ankle and wrist.”

Dean hums, comparing the list to whatever list he created while getting them both safe. “Sounds about right.” Sighing, he pulls his phone out and checks the time. “You’ve been out for about an hour, so the cops should be done soon. Then we can get out of here and get you bandaged up right.”

“An hour? I don’t…”

“Yeah, me neither,” Dean agrees harshly. “I’ve never seen you drop like that. And you don’t seem to be healing either.”

“Dean, I’m--”

“You scared the bejesus out of me.” He swallows some of the water, eyes focused somewhere beyond the wall. “You flopped over to Stephanie, healed her, and then dropped like a rock.”

He reaches for his grace again and is frightened by what he finds. “It’s gone,” he whispers. “Almost all of it.”

“Your mojo?” Dean asks sharply.

Castiel nods, the shock of it slowly spreading. Heaven had promised they would leave enough for him to survive, that they would leave him his wings. That he has healed for weeks and could be so gravely injured by a _boogeyman_ of all things…

They lied. They must have.

He stares, dry eyed, at the ceiling, silently hurling invectives towards Heaven. Dean’s hand slides around to rub gentle circles into his shoulder. Castiel wants to take comfort in the gesture, but his heart hurts too much.

Dean’s head whips around a few minutes later, shortly before a short, stocky young man knocks on the doorway. He’s wearing the same tee shirt as the would-be ghost hunters earlier, but Castiel doesn’t remember him as being part of that group.

“Cops are gone, and the EMTs gave us the go ahead to amscray,” he whispers. “Lets get you two out of here before they count heads.” Despite the fact that Castiel is nearly four inches taller than him, the young man bends over and picks him up. “Let’s go.”

“I can walk,” Castiel insists. “You don’t need to carry me.”

“This is faster and I don’t want that leg that far below your heart just yet,” he says. “Your life's gonna suck enough for a while, don’t need you losing a bunch more blood on top of it. And your buddy isn’t in a lot better shape.”

His ribs scream at him with every step, making him gasp. Castiel is panting by the time they get to the ugly Jeep, barely holding onto consciousness.

Dean crawls into the backseat from the driver’s side. “Thanks for the help. And the lift.”

“It’s only a couple of blocks, no worries.”

Castiel stumbles into the motel room under his own power while Dean digs the first aid kit out of the Impala. Stripping and collapsing onto the bed, he remembers too late that he should have a towel under his leg and have it elevated. He can already feel blood renewing its trickle down his calf.

* * *

Dean waves off Justin’s offer to help again and watches as he backs out of the parking lot to head home. He just wants to get Cas fixed up enough to get home.

Cas is sprawled face down across the bed, nearly naked, with his head buried between the pillows and his leg bent so his foot and calf are elevated.

Dropping the first aid kit on the table, Dean drags the chair next to the bed and pulls Cas’s leg down. The bleeding has all but stopped, so he bandages it properly, wraps ace bandages around his ankle and wrist and calls it good. Nothing to be done about either of their ribs and the rest is minor enough to be ignored.

“Cas, buddy. Wake up.” Dean pokes Cas awake, handing him a few painkillers. “Take those, get onto your back.”

Grumbling, Cas sits up. “I hate this.”

“Welcome to humanity, pal,” Dean snarks. “I’m gonna shower. Take the friggin’ pills.”


	14. Chapter 14

Sam scratches through the hunt on Dean’s notepad and muffles his yawn. “Yeah, Irv. I’ll keep an ear out. Let me know if you hear anything about Abaddon and Knights of Hell, alright? Or Garth, yeah.” He sets the phone down with a sigh and leans back in his chair.

Right on cue, Charlie bustles in from wherever she’s been working and pulls him into the kitchen. “Your turn to cook, then bed.”

Sam nods his way through another yawn before starting dinner. He’s completely wiped by the time he’s done, but sitting down helps.

“You look like shit,” Kevin says bluntly when they sit down. “What the hell have you been doing?”

“Running phones and research,” he shoots back. “I don’t know, I feel as crappy now as I did during the trials.”

“Great. Glad you’re around to protect me then.”

“This place is warded six ways from Sunday. Nothing can get in here.” Sam looks down at his plate and the two tacos still on it and pushes it away. “I’ll be in my room.”

Charlie calls after him, but he ignores her. Blinking so hard his eyes water, he drags himself down the hall and into his bed. Sleep. Maybe that will help.

When he wakes up, hours later, there’s a plate and water bottle on his nightstand. The red numbers on his alarm clock refuse to focus properly, but he thinks it says something around eight. He ignores the sandwich and water, stumbling down the hall to the bathroom and back.

That helps, or at least his eyes stop blurring as badly. Starving, he scarfs down the sandwich and heads back towards the library and kitchen to get back to work. Struggling through a headache and blurry vision, he makes a pot of coffee and settles back into his research.

By mid-day, he’s back to normal, speed reading through case files from the Men of Letters and acting as FBI supervisor for a few hunters. Charlie and Kevin head out during the afternoon-- Sam’s not entirely certain where to, but they didn’t offer any explanation-- leaving him alone for a few hours. Now that he thinks about, he’s barely seen Kevin at all since he and Charlie got back.

He must fall asleep in the library again, because the next thing he knows, Dean is stumbling down the stairs, weighed down by his and Cas’s bags. Cas follows, slower, limping down the steps.

If this is how Cas looks now-- pale and exhausted, wincing as he works his way down the stairs-- Sam can’t even imagine how bad he looked when that coco got through with them. Dean’s moving carefully too, but not nearly as bad-- some bruises, maybe a sprain.

“Holy shit, guys.” Pushing himself to his feet, Sam rushes over to grab a bag. “You said you were hurt, not half dead.”

Dean looks at him oddly before responding. “When was the last time it took us four days to get out of Dodge? For fuck’s sake.”

“Right, sorry.” Sam holds up his hands defensively. “You’re right.”

Dean snorts and drops the bags on the map table before steering Cas towards the bedrooms. “Let me get him to bed.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking unaccompanied,” Cas says sourly, lifting his hand in a truncated wave. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hey, Cas.” Even on flat ground, now that Sam’s looking, he can see the slight tremor in Cas’s legs. “You really should get some rest.”

“This is very inconvenient.”

“We do it just to fuck with you.” Dean snorts, resting his hand on Cas’s shoulder before pushing him in the direction of the bedrooms. “C’mon, I want you off that leg before it starts bleeding again.”

Sam detours into the kitchen, piling a few sandwiches onto a plate and snagging a couple beers before following them.

Dean and Cas are standing in the hallway outside Dean’s room, leaning together and speaking quietly. Sam can’t hear anything, but the way they’re bent towards each other tells him everything he really needs to know. Cas slips a hand up to cup the back of Dean’s head before leaning in for a careful kiss.

_Finally_.

Sam must make some sort of noise, because they don’t exactly spring apart, but they do look at him. “Uh… don’t mind me. I was bringing dinner, but I can…” see himself out, or to bed, or anywhere that’s not _here_.

Dean lazily reaches for the beer before shepherding them both into his room. Pushing Sam into the chair at his desk, he and Cas split the love seat. “Thanks for dinner, Sammy. Wanna fill us in on what we missed?”

It doesn’t take very long to catch each other up. Even still, Sam is exhausted by the time they’re done and Cas is already starting to doze off in the corner of the loveseat.

Sam picks up the plates and is reaching for the empty beer bottles when Dean snatches them away. “I’ll help. Cas, you good here?”

A soft snore answers him. A corner of Dean’s mouth turns up before he pushes Sam out into the hall.

“Dean, I can get it. I know you’re tired.”

“Yeah, and so are you. It’s cool.” They’re silent for a moment. “I’m worried about him.”

“He’s been nearly human before, Dean. He was out of mojo by the time the apocalypse was over.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t…” Dean trails off before starting again. “That was a slow decline.”

“As opposed to…” Sam frowns. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“He was one hundred percent when we left, right?” Dean picks at the label on one of the beer bottles. “He was eating by the time we got to Cañon City.”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t think it’s a big deal, Dean. His new normal, it’s gonna take a while for all of us to get used to it. Did he say anything?”

“No,” Dean says. “But he’s pissed at Heaven again, so maybe.”

Sam claps Dean on the shoulder before heading back to the bedrooms. “Trust him. He’ll let you know if it’s something to worry about.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Dean frowns, staying behind in the kitchen.

* * *

The bar is dark and filthy, filled with lost causes and the owner wouldn’t know a good scotch if he drowned in it. It’s the last place any demon would look for Crowley.

Or at least, that’s what he thought, before some moron-- who’d been sobbing into his beer all night-- decided to invite a crossroads demon into the place. That’s what he gets for paying more attention to the swill in front of him instead of the other patrons.

The demon that shows up isn’t a crossroads demon, isn’t any sort of demon Crowley recognizes. Stick thin and gangly, it scorches the floorboards with every step, glancing around the bar for… someone. Crowley, probably. It’s certainly not looking for the sucker who tried to make a deal.

Half hidden behind the curve of the bar, Crowley tosses a few bills on the bar and heads toward the back entrance.

“Abaddon never should have believed you were dead,” the demon hisses gutturally, grabbing a hold of him.

Crowley throws its arm off of him, twisting around to push the demon into the bar. He’s distracted pulling his stolen angel blade out of his pocket, and the demon rears back, slamming its head into Crowley’s face.

Pulling back, Crowley pops his nose back into place while the demon stumbles away from him. The bartender comes around the open end of the bar and Crowley has a brief moment of hope that he’ll kick the demon out.

Instead, the bartender drags them to the door and kicks them both out. “I don’t care who started it or when. Get out of here.”

Rolling to his feet, Crowley snaps his fingers to teleport away. He lands in a desolate public park, miles away, and sets himself to rights, brushing the gravel and dust off his suit. If the demon does follow him-- he pauses for a moment and quickly empties his pockets, just to make sure it didn’t slip him a hex bag-- he can hold his own in a fight long enough to kill it.

A branch flies past Crowley’s head. “The Queen would like a word,” the demon croaks, standing a few yards away.

The branch whips around, nearly taking Crowley’s head off before he ducks out of the way.

“Surely we can come up with a better way of handling this,” Crowley starts, trying to keep an eye on the demon. It blends into the dark under the trees and the thing’s true form, unlike any Crowley has ever seen, doesn’t seem to give off any glow at all. Combined with cloudy night, he’s lucky he can see anything at all. “There’s no need to come to blows.”

“No.”

“No deal? Everyone has a price,” Crowley scoffs.

“Not shedim.”

Crowley files the name away. “You’re _new_. How did you follow me?” Crowley has a suspicion for where the demon came from, what changes were made to its very makeup, but this isn’t the time.

“We have your scent,” the demon, if it can even be called that, snarls.

Another branch-like limb swings at him, forcing him to skip backwards and seek shelter behind one of the oaks. Holding the angel blade in one hand, he jumps away from the tree when it starts to fall, spinning around the trunk to see what exactly the shedim is doing.

It’s _eating_ the tree, strips of bark and wood disappearing with a harsh rasp.

Crowley slices at it with the demon blade, nearly severing its arm at the elbow, blood spurting into the air. The demon shoves back with its good arm, but Crowley disappears before it can get away. He hears something that might be screaming as he goes.

He jumps randomly and wildly before finally stopping in some medium-sized town in podunk Tennessee.

Looking at the thirty year old Toyota pickup, he sighs at the necessity. He can’t keep jumping like this-- every jump shortcuts through Hell-- and keeping a low profile is more important than his pride.

Probably.

Hours later, he no longer has any idea why this appeals to Squirrel at all. Paranoia has him constantly backtracking, heading up and down highways.

Near the Missouri border, he pays a drunken frat boy thirty bucks for a pint of blood-- A- and sour with beer-- before stealing the kid’s phone charger when he passes out. Given the messages popping up on his phone, Crowley is doing all three of the kid’s girlfriends a favor.

Sprawled on lumpy mattress in a two-star hotel, watching a Hallmark special and high on the frat boy’s blood, he gives up. Juliet is there in an instant, pawing at his leg when he doesn’t greet her properly.

“Yes, sweetie. Papa’s had a long day. Watch the door.” Juliet settles against him, watching the door while he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He’ll have to move the things she was guarding, find a new safe location for them. But that day was coming soon anyway.

* * *

Dean’s hands are cold when he comes to bed, enough to wake Castiel from the fitful doze he’d fallen into. Resentfully, he allows himself to be tugged upright long enough for Dean strip off his jeans and replace them with borrowed sweatpants before being pushed back down.

Four days later, he scarcely feels better than he did the morning after the coco. His grace is slowly repairing the damage to his body, speeding up the healing process, but not fast enough.

He swallows roughly in the dark. If he can’t help on hunts…

Dean pulls at his shoulder, derailing Castiel’s thoughts. “Turn over,” Dean orders softly in the dark.

Oh. Castiel winces as rolling over puts pressure on his ribs, but once he’s facing Dean, it’s much better, the dull ache easing.

Dean’s hand comes up to cup his jaw before leaning in to gently kiss him. “Sleep first. Then whatever you’re worrying about.”

“If I can’t help on hunts…”

“I’ve never had superpowers.” Dean pauses for a moment before continuing. “I’ll make sure you don’t need them either.”

Castiel frowns in the dark but doesn’t say anything.

The slide into proper sleep takes a while, listening to Dean’s breathing smooth out except for an occasional almost snore.

He feels stronger in the morning. Castiel tries to check how his grace is regrowing while Dean disappears into the bathroom before giving it up as a lost cause.

Angels aren’t meant to constantly lose and regain grace, to be trapped in a vessel on Earth for years. He wouldn’t give this up, wouldn’t give Dean up, but at the same time…

He needs to be useful, not another burden.

Castiel’s meditation is interrupted by Dean tossing a pair of jeans and a shirt towards him from the dresser. “Get a move on. Sam will be back from his run soon if he’s not already.”

Frowning, Castiel picks up the clothes and goes to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

* * *

Sam is already reading a newspaper article while wrapped around a coffee cup. Slowly, a hand comes up to rub at his forehead as the other scribbles down something on the notepad at his elbow.

Dean watches for a long moment, trying to gauge how recovered Sam really is. Sometimes, it seems like he’s back to the salad eating gigantor he’s always been, but other times, like right now, it’s clear he’s not. “Headache?” he asks roughly.

“Kinda. I’ll be fine.” Sam shrugs, tossing down the pen. “Starting to wonder if I need reading glasses though.”

Slopping some coffee into a couple of mugs, Dean raises an eyebrow. “Would’ve figured the angel would have taken care of that.”

“It only started in the last couple of weeks.” Sam shakes his head. “Whatever. I found us a case.”

“Awesome.” Dean sniffs the carton of milk in the fridge and shrugs before dropping it on the table. “What’s up?”

Sam lights up, pushing the laptop against the wall and out of the way. “Leavenworth, Kansas--”

“Another fucking prison? Really? I just got back from a prison hunt,” Dean cuts him off. “How about the woods? Or, ooh, a beach resort?”

“Not the prison.” Sam rolls his eyes before continuing, “So get this: One of the churches in town is one hundred percent healthy. Not a single member in the hospital or even a cold. Newspaper is saying its a miracle.”

Frowning, Dean takes a sip of his coffee. “Reaper?”

Shrugging, Sam says, “That’s what I thought too at first, but no one’s been dropping dead at the same time. I dug a little deeper and found what they’re keeping out of the papers.”

“Which is?” Dean asks impatiently.

“An angel did it. At least, according to the reports I could find.”

“I should be the only angel left on Earth,” Cas breaks in, dropping onto the seat across from Dean and stealing his coffee.

Dean loses track of the conversation for a moment, distracted by the sight of Cas in his clothes, hair still damp and curling slightly. Cas smiles at him from across the table before knocking their ankles together.

“Dean.” Sam pokes him with the corner of the notepad. “Focus.”

“Probably the halos, healing folks for no apparent reason. Cas should be the only one left,” Dean recites before stealing back his coffee and taking a long drink. “Anything else?”

“Just _how_ the angel is supposedly doing it,” Sam says. “Apparently, it requires touching their soul.”

“And... you have my full attention. Souls, again?”

“If it’s even an angel. I’m sure my sibling isn’t--” Cas cuts himself off, looking conflicted.

“Awesome.” Dean sighs and rubs his eyes, mentally saying farewell to the break where he and Cas barely got out of bed. It’d been a nice daydream while it lasted. “Let’s check it out.”

By their standards, Leavenworth is practically next door, a straight shot east for a couple hours before jogging south. Sam and Cas spend a good forty-five minutes of the drive marveling at the names of the tiny towns and villages that they pass, a combination of English cities, mispronounced Native American names-- Cas pronounces them correctly, of course, and tells them about the tribes that lived around here-- and the occasional German name that appears out of nowhere.

A working history of the midwest written on highway signs. Dean listens without saying much, reveling in having them both with him and (mostly) healthy.

The church parking lot is nearly empty when they get there, a handful of cars parked around the back entrance with some folks moving in and out. Dean’s not sure if the women are preparing for a meeting or shutting down after a funeral, but either way, there’s enough movement they should be lost in the shuffle.

Sam volunteers to stay outside, watching the exterior for any sign of something weird. “There’s no point in them seeing all three of us.”

Dean nods uneasily. “Keep an ear out though? Last time we tangled with angels…” He trails off, remembering a dark humid forest.

“I’m just not feeling the religious fervor today.” Sam shrugs. “Besides, Reggie asked me to run phones for him this afternoon-- something about trouble with the local badges.”

Dean nods uneasily and tosses Sam the car keys before catching up with Cas.

It’s hard not to enjoy the warm weather while they walk the half block to the church. Dean’s knuckles brush Cas’s as they walk and he almost takes his hand.

The church, when they reach it, still has the front doors unlocked from weekday morning services, easily allowing them inside. Dean casts a wary eye around the foyer, but it’s empty except for a single middle aged man kneeling in front of the votive candles to the right.

Cas wanders towards him while Dean investigates the sanctuary. It’s also nearly empty, an elderly man straightening the pews while a woman patiently waits near the confessional. It pretty much looks like any other church Dean has ever been in-- wooden pews, white walls leading up to a vaulted ceiling, stained glass windows-- but somehow it’s also the most peaceful one.

Not that Dean spends a lot of time in churches that aren’t _also_ the site of murder investigations. Maybe they’re all like this when not covered in blood or demons.

“Can I help you, son?” The old man asks.

“I…” Dean scrambles for a story that makes sense. He doesn’t have to go far, worry about Sam and his see-saw recovery never too far away, plus whatever is going on with Cas. “I needed somewhere to pray. My brother--”

“Ah,” the old man says, sticking out his hand to shake. “Father Keith is who you want to talk to then. I’m Edward.”

“Dean.” He shakes the man’s hand briefly, wondering how this is going to go. “Is the Padre around or…?”

“It’s his turn to take confession, I’m afraid. But he should be done soon.” Edward frowns, glancing around the place. “We’re real hopping right now, as you can see.”

“I can wait.” Dean chuckles and heads towards the back of the church.

Cas hasn’t really moved, standing a few feet away from the votives. Dean almost thinks he looks wistful. “Anything useful?”

“The faith of this congregation is a remarkable thing to behold.” Cas steps closer to the candles, dragging Dean with him, and flicks his fingers slightly. Dean can feel a breath of a breeze slide by them, but only a couple of the candles flicker. The rest burn steadily, barely moving.

“That’s… what is that?” Dean asks.

“Prayers of the faithful.” He definitely looks wistful now, watching the candles burn merrily, resuming their dance with every passing air current. “They believe their prayers will be answered.”

Glancing around, Dean slides his arm around Cas’s waist, pulling him close enough to drop a kiss on his temple. “So we’re in the right place then.”

“Yes, you are, Dean Winchester.”

Whirling around, Dean drops his hand to his gun.

The man behind them is in his thirties, clerical collar stark white against honey brown skin. Other than the collar, he’s dressed pretty informally for a priest, a black button-up shirt paired with dark wash jeans, suit jacket nowhere to be seen.

“Hannah,” Cas breathes next to Dean. “You survived.”

“As did you,” he says. “Many of us…”

“Many of our siblings did not,” Cas agrees. “I’m sorry.”

“If you’ll follow me, please.” Hannah nods gravely. “If you’re here, I assume you want to talk privately?”

He leads them through the hallways of the church to one of the small offices built in the back. Dean takes the opportunity to text Sam that this might take longer than a simple look around before settling into the nearly empty office.

“Why are you here, Castiel?”

“Because someone keeps healing people and word gets around,” Dean cuts in harshly.

“Dean!” Cas starts.

“No, it’s quite alright. Heaven rings with almost as many stories about him as they do you, Castiel.” Hannah glances down at the desk before meeting their eyes. “Yes, I am healing some people of this parish. Not many, and not as fully as I would like, but--” she sighs and taps her fingers against the desk edge.

“But what, sister?” Cas asks quietly.

“Most of the angels who joined the battle are still on Earth. We’re forbidden from returning to Heaven.”

“You’re stuck here?” Dean asks. “How many?”

Hannah shrugs fluidly, “A dozen flights at least, maybe more.”

“So you’re here. Healing people in exchange for...”

“Survival,” she says simply. “My grace suffered in the battle and the congregation here is large enough to need at least two priests. After Keith consented to be my vessel, I couldn’t… I couldn’t let their faith suffer because of my taint.”

Dean swallows, watching Cas out of the corner of his eye.

“Sister, I have a request,” Cas says abruptly. “Exiled as I am--” He breaks off.

Dean wonders for a moment what is supposed to go there. Cas has been on the outs with Heaven most of the time they’ve known each other, what’s so different this time?

Hannah snorts. “We are all exiled, Castiel.”

Cas squirms in the chair next to Dean, twisting his fingers together.

Dean frowns, watching, before he clues in that this is one of those ‘no humans allowed’ things. “While you guys chat, I’m going to go update Sam.” Pushing himself to his feet, he rests his hand on Cas’s shoulder and squeezes tightly. “You know where to find me.”

“Of course, Dean.”

When Dean reaches the foyer, the old guy from before, Edward, has his hands full, trying to carry a laundry basket full of canned goods and get the door at the same time. His face lights up when he sees Dean. “You find the Father alright, son? I saw him heading back here a bit ago.”

“He found us, actually.” Dean pushes the door open and holds it. “The Padre seems like a good man.”

“A little queer,” Edward starts, “Odd, I mean. Was a right twit when he transferred here about six months ago, focused on doing everything by the book. But Father Patrick took him in hand over the past month or so. Even started saying the Mass in Latin again for us old timers.”

“I’m… glad,” Dean says. “You hear things, ya know.” Somehow he ends up carrying the basket, following Edward to his car. A few of the ladies call over greetings, or stop and chat, but Dean waits patiently each time. He’s not in any real hurry-- this isn’t a case, apparently, not really-- and Hannah might not be as big of a dick as the rest of Heaven, so might as well let Cas get the gossip or whatever.

* * *

Hidden away within Samuel, only catching the barest glimpses of what’s going is not working as well as he had hoped. He’s hidden, yes, and has slowly carved himself a hiding place in the tortured disaster that Samuel calls a psyche, but he keeps missing vital information.

Slowly surfacing, he absorbs Samuel’s recent memories-- enough to bring him up to speed should Dean contact him-- while looking around. A cellphone lies on the trunk of the car, glinting in the early afternoon sunlight. He thinks that maybe Samuel was using it for something, but they are far far _far_ too close to another angel to stay here.

The church at the end of the block fairly glows with grace. Repairing the humans’ faith, small miracles, Father knows what else. Too close and bolstered by her congregation’s prayers, he cannot risk another angel seeing him.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks the other direction. Between resting and the siphoning of Castiel’s grace, he can risk healing a bit more of Samuel’s wounds. The spring sunshine of a park will not assist with that, but it is the farthest thing from the sterile hallways of Heaven or the dim Bunker as he can think of.

Plus, it reminds him of Eden.

Castiel told him once about parks and swing sets and small children playing, one of the times he was hauled before Naomi. He said it brought him joy to watch them so, to know playgrounds are small microcosms of the world.

Gadreel isn’t sure he believes it-- loud, shrieking mud monkeys, screaming about whatever catches their fancy-- but he’s already here. Mud monkeys they might be, they are still descended from his charges.

He watches the children for a long time before he realizes the woman across from him is staring at him intently. When she pulls another woman over, pointing at him surreptitiously, he decides it’s time to move before he draws attention to himself.

He leaves the playground and children behind, passing into the wooded area. It’s cooler under the trees, almost chill, even though the budding leaves are barely breaking the sunshine up.

Between one step and the next, he is surrounded.

“Demons,” he growls, turning to view all five of them.

“Sam Winchester,” the one in front of him purrs. “Not the Winchester we wanted, but you’ll do.”

“What do you want?” Gadreel asks, keeping his blade hidden.

“Nothing. Want the demon that follows.” The demon jerks sharply, spearing a limb towards Gadreel.

He sidesteps, trying to twist out of the way. The arm-spear _burns_ as it rips through his vessel’s arm, barbs digging in and ripping away chunks of flesh.

A second demon takes advantage of the distraction, spearing a second limb into Gadreel’s body, pinning him between them. Gadreel screams, evil and corruption burning the edges of his grace, keeping him from drawing his blade.

The leader laughs. More spears, dragging him back and forth between them all. The circle tightens, weaving around him so he cannot break free without being immediately recaptured.

Frantically, desperately, he looks for a way out that won’t expose him.

There isn’t one.

The demons laugh, rejoicing in their capture of Samuel, using him as bait for a trap for the former king.

Shaking himself, Gadreel inhales sharply before spreading his wings and releasing his grace in an explosive blast.

The three nearest-- including the leader-- disintegrate instantly in the blue-white light. The fourth and fifth rip their spear-like limbs from him attempting to flee. He pounces, ripping a demon apart and stabbing it with his blade.

The demon lights up with flame, turning to ash under his knees. He ignores it, turning to catch the last one just in time for it to slip between shadows and disappear.

Sighing, he returns the ash below to its constituent atoms, effectively hiding that there was anything here at all, before leaning heavily against a tree.

* * *

Castiel wait for the door to latch closed before looking at Hannah again. She watches him patiently, waiting for him to spit out what he needs. Try as he might though, he can’t force himself to say his fears aloud.

“Castiel-- When Kabniel severed your grace, they didn’t…”

“They promised me the use of my wings. That is all.”

Hannah winces, as aware as he is of the wide range available with that restriction. “Kabriel is an honorable angel, they wouldn’t--”

“If it was ridding the Host of one who has rebelled and been cast out before? Yes, they would, and be well within their right to do so.” Castiel blinks back the bitter tears threatening to overflow. Another sign that he can never return to Heaven. “I’ve spent so long in this vessel that I can no longer tell the health of my grace.”

“Brother, I…” Hannah trails off, twisting the long fingers of her vessel together, picking at the cuffs of her shirt. “I cannot undo the _Commah,_ it is outside my power, even if I called every soul in this building to me.”

Castiel huffs, looking out the window behind her. “That’s not… Am I trapped here, useless?” His voice is small, hesitant, and he hates it. Hates everything to do with this, hates that no matter what she says, he’s still exiled and can never go home.

“Oh, Castiel.” Hannah leans forward and, for the first time since he rescued Dean, another angel’s wings rub against his, sending sparks through him. He doesn’t remember--

Hannah extends her hand, picking his up from where it lies in his lap. “You are always welcome here if your human abandons you.”

Castiel jerks back in shock. “Dean won’t--”

“Of course,” she agrees easily, tightening her grip on his hand. “You are welcome, nonetheless.”

He can vaguely feel her prodding at his grace before soothing it like an angry cat. “Well?”

“I’m sorry, Castiel. When Kabniel closed the rift… they left you with only this much grace. I don’t think it will ever recover. Your wings are… mostly intact, but you knew that.”

Grimly, he nods. “Thank you, sister. I-- I needed an objective opinion.”

“There are other options,” she says, glancing at the door. “Particularly if Dean trusts you as much as rumor says he does.”

He stares at her blankly for a moment before what she’s saying makes sense. “Souls? You’re using their _souls_?”

“What other option did I have?” she shoots back. “I was injured in the battle. Keith agreed to allow me the use of his vessel as long as I took care of his parish.”

“And healing them requires grace,” Castiel sighs.

“This is the longest I’ve been on Earth since before Lucifer fell. I am trying to _survive_. We all are.”

Castiel sits, motionless, in his chair. “I can’t, _won’t_ , take that option. Not unless it’s the only way to save him.” He pauses for a moment. “You’re _all_ using that option? Every angel left on Earth?”

Hannah shrugs before standing and moving around the desk. “Those who have contacted me, yes. We were all injured.”

A knock at the door cuts off anything Castiel might say, followed by a young woman peeking her head in. “Father Keith? The prayer group is waiting.”

“Right, of course Melissa,” Hannah says, retreating into the shell of the priest. “I’ll be right there.” Turning to Castiel, she tilts her head. “Unless there’s anything else?”

He swallows but shakes his head. There’s nothing else she can do for him. Not if she’s resorting to human souls to keep her grace strong. “No, I think… I think you’ve done enough. Thank you.”

Following the pair to the front of the church, Castiel sighs and looks around for Dean.

* * *

The demon in front of her screams as she tears its guts out, dropping them in a steaming pile on the floor. Nails made of pure salt hold it against the wall, rivulets of blood and salt running down its arms, across yet more open cuts. The more it struggles, the faster the salt dissolves into its bloodstream.

Standing back, Abaddon watches for a moment, before turning away. As entertaining as this is, it’s merely a distraction. Meg stands near the entrance to her chambers, motionless and patient, waiting for acknowledgement.

“What did you find?”

“The princes are reluctant to bow to your supremacy. They are content to wait for Lucifer to free himself again.”

Abaddon stares at her for a long moment. “They will be destroyed.”

“Of course,” Meg says quietly. “As they deserve. I’ll take care of it personally.”

“No, not you. One of the shedim came back.” she gestures to the shape on the wall behind her. “Crowley survives. Correct that.”

Meg bows, coming back up with a fierce grin. “Yes, my queen.”


	15. Chapter 15

Sam’s nowhere to be seen when Dean reaches the car, his phone left behind on the trunk of the Impala. Frowning, Dean thumbs the phone open, paging through the recent calls and text messages for anything might explain where Sam’s gone.

“Hello,” Dean answers automatically when it rings.

“Dean? Rudy. Got a bit of an odd one here that I was hoping to get y’all’s take on.”

“What’s up?” Dean leans against the car. “Unless you’re calling Sam because it’s actually a Sam-thing.”

“Nah. It’s definitely weird, but not in a book-lore sort of way.” Rudy rambles for a couple minutes before Dean cuts him off.

“Rudy, the situation?”

“It looked like a straightforward crossroad deal from the news reports: a sudden run of good luck for the regulars of a bar, but you know how those are, lightning strikes right? By the time you see the stories in the papers, the demon’s gone and, well, those sorry suckers have a date with a hellhound in a few years. Sucks for them, but what can you do?”

Dean makes an impatient noise.

“Anyway, I only stopped in because it was on my way back north from a hunt down in Georgia. Sittin’ there, having a drink, watching for the demon, just in case, ya know? Then some jackhole decides to have _another_ go at summoning the damn thing, and Dean, I swear to all that is holy, what showed up was _not_ a crossroads demon.”

Dean frowns, popping open the car door so he can sit down. “What was it then?”

“That’s why I’m callin’ you. I’ve got no fuckin’ clue and I’ve spent the past few days digging into everything I’ve got. Thing shows up, in a _funky_ looking meatsuit, and immediately goes after some guy who’d been riding a stool all evening. Not the guy who summoned it, mind, different dude entirely.”

“What’d the demon look like?” Dean asks, already going through his mental catalog of things that go bump in the night. He looks up in time to see Cas emerge from the church, shoulders slumped and exhausted despite the bright sunshine.

“Damn near eight foot tall, arms too long for its body. It moved weird too, springy lurches. Burned the floor when it took a step, burned handprint onto the bartop.”

“Jesus.” Dean’s eyes widen. “Yeah, no idea what that is. Never even heard of such a thing outside of a jack, and nothing else about it fits.”

“Yeah,” Rudy sighs. “Me neither. Figured y’all could have a look at your fancy library and see if you found anything. This thing sent a demon running.”

“Another demon?”

“Demon on demon violence. The barstool cowboy who’d been sitting silently two down from me, drinking his whiskey and ignoring all of us.”

“Way to bury the lede there, man.” Dean waves a hand at Cas. “I’ll ask around about the aggro one. The other… I think we’re gonna be seeing a lot of more like that.”

“You’ll pardon me if I’m not exactly excited about sad sack demons hanging out in random bars.”

“Civil war, Rudy. A biggie. And only one side sees any use for humans at all. The other would rather wipe us all out.”

Rudy’s doubt is palpable, but he doesn’t say anything, giving Dean a description of the second demon before hanging up.

Tossing Sam’s phone onto the dash, Dean slouches and leans his head against the seat. Just what he needs, all of Hell chasing after Crowley.

“Where’s Sam?” Cas asks.

“Dunno, disappeared again.” Dean pauses, opening his eyes and looking at Cas. “Did Hannah tell you what you needed?”

Cas leans against the car, crossing his arms and staring across the street. “She’s using souls,” he admits quietly. “To keep her grace intact.”

“Just Hannah or…”

“All of them. Or all of the ones she’s talked to.”

“Isn’t that kinda dangerous?” Dean twists around, planting his feet on the road. “Something about nuclear reactors.”

“Yes.”

“What about you? Is that an option or…”

Cas recoils, disgust written across his face. “Only as a last resort and to preserve your life, with your consent or Sam’s if you’re unable to give it.” He pauses for a long moment before continuing, “We’re supposed to protect humanity. Not use it to save ourselves.”

“Alright,” Dean says simply, pushing himself to his feet and closing the car door. “Let’s go find Sam and dinner. We can figure out if we need to do something then.”

* * *

Sam jolts awake when a kid screams. Glancing around the clearing, it occurs to him that this is a weird place to take a nap, but he’s too wired to think about it for long. For the first time in _weeks_ , he feels normal, without the dragging fatigue or tinnitus that’s plagued him since he started the trials.

It doesn’t take long to get back to the church and from there, he spots the Impala with Dean and Cas leaning against it, looking bored and impatient. Sam still doesn’t remember why he wandered off without his phone, but given the quality of his nap, he’ll ask forgiveness.

“Brother!” A voice calls after him as he passes the church. “Are you well?”

Turning, Sam glances at the priest, standing in the church vestibule. “I’m… What?”

“It’s Hannah, Brother,” the priest says, lowering his-- her?-- voice. “Did you come with Castiel? You are welcome here, even if he does not stay.”

“I’m… not an angel,” Sam says slowly. “My name is Sam Winchester, I’m Dean’s brother.” He holds out a suddenly clammy hand to shake, his heart beating out of control. “Cas is the only angel I’ve had contact with in _weeks_.”

Hannah frowns, ignoring his outstretched hand and grabbing Sam’s arm. “Brother, identify yourself,” she commands before saying a few words in Enochian.

Sam knocks her hand away and steps back.

“Sam!” Dean calls from behind him. “What the hell, man?”

He’s frozen, unable to move away from Hannah, unable to turn. His mouth forces itself open, grinding out, “Gadreel. My name is Gadreel.”

“No, that can’t--” Hannah breaks off, digging her fingers into his shoulder. “How are you _free_?”

Abruptly, Sam is pushed to the side, unable to control his own body, watching impotently as his hands snap Hannah’s neck. Before he can do more, he tosses himself to the side with all his will, hoping against hope that he can accomplish _something_.

Extra appendages snap out and the church, street, and Hannah disappear from sight, replaced with wheat fields.

Gadreel seizes control, flaring their wings and sending them somewhere else, somewhere Sam doesn’t recognize.

They spend a long time like that, stealing control of Sam’s body from each other until Gadreel gets the drop on him and locks him away.

* * *

“Hannah!” Castiel yells and rushes towards her fallen body, Dean hot on his heels. The other angel, the one in Sam-- how had he missed that?-- flies away before her vessel even hits the ground.

Shouldering Dean out of the way, Castiel drops to his knees, pressing his hand to her forehead, and pushes his grace into Hannah’s vessel, healing him without a thought.

Dean yanks him away before he’s finished. “Cas, stop dammit.”

“I-- Hannah--”

“Is a fucking _angel_ and will be _fine_ , Jesus fuck.” Dean sags back, kneeling on the concrete next to him. “Where did Sam go?”

Proving him right, Hannah opens her eyes, staring at them before pushing herself up. “That was unnecessary, Castiel.”

“It’s too late now,” Castiel says roughly, trying to judge the amount of grace he has left. It’s not much, maybe enough to protect him in flight, but not enough to do anything useful. He can _never_ do anything useful.

Dean climbs to his feet, watching the street around them. “Sam? Anyone want to help with that? Or--”

“Shut up,” Hannah snaps. “Be respectful, Dean.”

“Respectful?” Dean draws out, “You want me to be respectful when my brother just got kidnapped by a fucking angel? How about instead you tell me where the hell they’ve gone and I’ll--”

“Dean, enough,” Castiel cuts him off, wavering as he climbs to his feet. “We know his name and can do a tracking spell. Threats will get us nowhere.”

“In the church, please,” Hannah murmurs. “We don’t need to discuss this in the open.”

Dean grumbles, turning to follow her before pausing, his shoulders drawing up. He wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist, helping him stumble into the church and Hannah’s office. Hannah splits off in the hallways to fetch the ingredients needed presumably.

Although, he also thought Sam no longer had an angel in him. So his observations are clearly suspect.

Allowing Dean to settle him into the office chair, Castiel tries to remember anything that might explain how he missed Gadreel’s presence. The only thing he can think of is how his grace has been unreliable since the battle with Abaddon, levels jumping erratically.

“Has Kevin said anything? About Sam being… not himself?” he asks hesitantly. They’ve not spent a lot of time together, Castiel knows that much, but thought it was circumstantial-- college visits and hunts and research, worrying about whatever is happening in Hell and Abaddon instead of the aftermath of the battle…

Dean thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “Not really. Is that covered in prophet-ness?”

“Every prophet is different. John could tell angels apart, Noah could not. The others--” he cuts himself off. “Given what the Winchester Gospels covered, Chuck almost certainly could see angels and demons’ true forms. It hasn’t come up with Kevin beyond the obvious translation skills.”

Dean stares at him for a second before shaking his head. “One day, you should blow Sammy’s nerdy little brain with that. Once we get him back.”

Hannah lets herself into the office, skirting around Castiel’s chair with a bowl of spell components. “I have everything.”

“Awesome,” Dean says. Gesturing to the covered desk, he asks, “Is any of this important?” An infinitesimal pause, not enough time for anyone to say anything, and he sweeps all the papers to the ground. “Good.”

Hannah sighs mournfully before setting down the bowl in the cleared space. “Castiel, you have a greater connection to the vessel, you should complete the spell.”

“The vessel?” Dean bites out. Castiel watches as his hand tighten around the back of the other chair, knuckles briefly going white. “He has a name. Sam, in case you forgot it.”

“Yes, of course,” Hannah says blandly. “Castiel, if you would please.”

Sighing, Castiel stands and digs the chalk from the bowl before emptying the bowl into Dean’s hands. Drawing the necessary circle and setting up the spell, he reaches for the any link he can find with Sam. There’s nothing there, his bond with Sam has never been profound, mere friendship joining them instead of everything that exists between him and Dean.

The spell flares and dies without result, the map turning to ash with nothing to indicate where Sam or Gadreel are. Slouching, Castiel prods the ash with his finger, waiting for the recriminations.

“He’s no longer on this plane?” Hannah asks gruffly. “How is that possible? Gadreel… He’s been locked up for centuries, millennia, punished for his actions in the Fall. How is he allowed back home while we’re stuck here?” Her voice rises until she’s practically yelling.

Dean looks at the ash that covers the desk before shaking his head. “It’s not that.” Reaching up, he rubs at his ribs. “Cas, those sigils on our ribs from the apocalypse. To hide us from Heaven and Hell or whatever. They’re still around, right? Still doing their thing?”

Castiel thinks for a moment before nodding. “They’re damaged now, you both break ribs often enough--” He breaks off with a sigh. “But Gadreel could have easily fixed them while healing Sam.”

“So they’re not gone, just hidden from us,” Dean finishes. “Or from the spell, whatever. It doesn’t matter, we can’t find them.” He thinks for a moment. “Okay. Hannah? You’re on location. If he shows back up, drop a dime, alright?”

“What are we going to do?” Castiel demands. “I’m practically useless, no grace to speak of.”

“You and I are going to do this the human way,” Dean says smugly. “Gadreel has been in prison forever so he’s going to stick out.”

“How is that not the same thing,” Hannah asks plaintively. “We’re all looking for him.”

“But we’re using two separate methods.” Dean turns to look at her, “And I don’t trust you. You’re not hurting anyone yet, which is the only reason you’re here.”

“Castiel should remain here, with me, among his own kind,” Hannah insists. “Not gallivanting off with you.”

Dean rolls his eyes and walks out the door. Castiel looks over Hannah’s desk to where she’s standing next to the windows. “I’m sorry, Sister. But I can’t.”

Hannah scoffs. “He’s going to fail you. You put too much faith in him.”

“I’ll deal with that when the day comes.”

* * *

The blood wears off on the second day, he’s not really paying that much attention. It’s been centuries since Crowley’s felt like this, since he felt _anything_. Admittedly, what he’s feeling isn’t grand, more misery and guilt and despair than anything else, but it’s something.

Juliet pulls him from the cheap hotel room as he’s coming down, whining as she leads him to the shitty four door sedan and noses him into the driver’s seat.

The further away from Nashville he gets, the more his head clears, until he realizes what’s been subtly wrong since he escaped Hell. Barthamus, that fucking rat--

Snarling, Crowley yanks the car off the road. It’s time for a new plan.

* * *

The demons are restless, milling around the throne room and waiting for her to make her appearance. Bela growls when one of the demons, Eligos, approaches the throne, baring her teeth. As tempting as it is to allow him to smack her into a different realm, she is far too useful where she is.

“Enough,” Abaddon commands, surrounding them with her power as she slides into visibility. “I have been here for months, _years_ , and I am disappointed. Lucifer rose and Hell didn’t take advantage? Were you all asleep? Making deals when you should be taking; putting Crowley in charge… What the hell happened to Hell?”

Vapula of Dis stares her down, crossing her limbs contemptuously. “You were trapped, if I have to remind you. The princes dead or avoiding Hell entirely, Lucifer in his cage.” She settles back on her rear limbs, her tongue glistening damply as it wipes over her face.

“Soul deals are actually up,” Barthamus points out helpfully. “Since the apocalypse. Humanity’s invention of a number of technologies has--”

Abaddon wraps a claw around his throat, choking him. “You’re _paying_ instead of taking. Another businessman, no better than Crowley.”

He gurgles before she tosses him against the wall. Bela pounces, tearing into him, ripping chunks from his limbs and swallowing them. Abaddon watches for a moment before flaring her wings to regain the other’s attention.

“I am the new queen,” she declares. “You will give me your allegiance or you will face exile.” Her shedim melt out of the walls, ranging themselves around the demons and filling the room with screeching that almost overpowers the screams of the pits. “My locusts will be following anyone who chooses exile, of course.”

Abimelech, silent in their neutrality, watches for a long moment, tilting their head. They nod in approval before holding out their hand. “The forest is at your command, my queen.”

The others fall in line quickly after that, pledging their fiefdoms to her service. Barthamus is the last, bleeding and oozing from the wounds Bela has inflicted. Abaddon is almost disappointed-- Bela is far easier to force into submission-- but accepts his groveling surrender anyway.

Once Hell is united-- the leader of the Pit is still missing and unknown except Meg’s cryptic hints-- and Earth subjugated, she will have the power to restructure things.

Looking out over the landscape, such as it is, she can already see her power taking effect, changing the very fabric of Hell, turning it away from Crowley’s bureaucratic dystopia and back into what Hell is supposed to be.

* * *

“Does Sam seem weird to you lately?” Kevin asks over their now traditional breakfast of mediocre hash browns and rubbery eggs. Half a state away, he can finally be absolutely certain Sam can’t overhear him and the diner is busy enough he’s not worried about anyone else listening in.

“Weird how?” Charlie asks, pushing her biscuit towards him and snagging his bacon. “Because, I gotta say, they’re both weird by normal standards, all the time.”

“Not himself weird, or really, really sick.” Kevin frowns, picking at his eggs. “Since he got back from wherever that angel dropped him off. Most of the time, he seems normal if tired, but sometimes...”

“He checks out, like he’s not paying any attention at all,” Charlie finishes. “Yeah, I noticed that too, decided it was leftover trial damage. You think it’s something else?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s not the only one fucked up and I just need to learn how to relax.”

Charlie snorts. “That’s one of the things for you to learn this summer then. Before you start classes.”

“Yeah. In between random demands for spells, staying under the demonic radar, and, oh yeah, I’m still a freaking prophet!”

“Hey!” Charlie says sharply. “You don’t get to take this out on me. I’ll help, but I’m not your punching bag, no matter how rough a go you’ve had of it. Got it?”

Glancing guiltily past her head, he watches the streamers on the fan in the corner twist and curl in the breeze. “Yeah, I got it.”

They’re silent for the rest of their meal. Kevin swallows his apology, wanting to wait until he can actually make it up to her. Not that he’s sure how to do that-- it’s not like being a prophet comes with a paycheck-- but it’s the thought that counts. Maybe cookies.

Charlie knocks her shoulder into his on their way out to the car. “Stop thinking so hard. You’ll give yourself a stroke.”

“Promise?”

Charlie hefts the bag of supplies into the backseat of her bright yellow Gremlin and grins at him, “No. Now get in the car. I want to get to the morgue before the coroner has a chance to wake up.”

Kevin sighs, smoothing down his polo shirt and slacks before dropping into the car. “I still think this is a bad idea. What if the morgue is stocked with demons, what if--”

“What if Crowley spontaneously repents and becomes one of the good guys?” Charlie cuts him off. “Stop catastrophizing.”

Kevin isn’t sure he believes her, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. Charlie is the only one willing to let him out of the Bunker, the one helped find his mom. Given the choice between the Bunker and _anything_ else? Not even a question.

Charlie bops along to some indie girl group while she drives, dancing in her seat and singing along for a few minutes before she glances over and falls silent. Kevin wants to tell her to go ahead, wants to join in, but what they’re doing: picking up his mother’s effects from the morgue ties his tongue. He stares out the window instead, watching the uniformly grey sky pass by overhead.

It feels like it should be raining.

His eyes well up, grief overwhelming the fear and paranoia. He shouldn’t have sent Mom away so he could focus on the damn trials. Should have kept her safe, even if she was annoying the crap out of him, or gotten Garth to set her up with another hunter, or…

Charlie’s hand slides up his arm to rest on his shoulder. “It’s alright, Kev. Let it out.”

Swallowing roughly, he nods against the side window before cracking it to let some fresh air into the car.

Mom’s body is long gone when they get to the Wichita morgue, handed over the University Medical School for research. Kevin has to hold back a sob when the coroner passes along that tidbit-- Mom hated biology, said it was messy and sticky, was overjoyed when he chose chem over bio for his AP courses…

Kevin snaps his focus back to the coroner and Charlie. She passes him a small box, not much larger than a shoebox, labeled with a date and file number.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Tran,” the coroner says kindly. “And I’ve very sorry we were unable to locate you before…” He trails off, clearly not knowing how to finish the sentence.

That’s okay, Kevin can fill in the blanks easily. Sorry they were unable to locate him before they turned his mom into a science experiment, sorry they didn’t find her until she was already dead, sorry they…

Kevin nods blankly, staring at the box, and lets Charlie get whatever other information she needs from the guy.

Ignoring them both, he slowly wanders back to the front, slipping out the glass doors of the nondescript building and stands next to Charlie’s car.

He breaks the sealing tape with his thumbnail, holding his breath and setting the lid aside on the car roof.

There’s not much: a copy of the death certificate and other papers-- he leaves that folder closed, he doesn’t need to see anything in there right now-- and a small plastic bag with her jewelry and other personal effects. Biting back a sob, he drops the bag back into the box and slams the lid back on top.

Charlie comes out a few minutes later, already on the phone, her voice unnaturally high pitched as she busts out the best customer service voice Kevin’s heard in months. “We’re in Wichita now, so we can be in Kansas City in a few hours. Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Hanging up the phone, she drops it onto the car seat and rolls her eyes. “Pompous douche bag.”

“Is everything--” Kevin starts.

“It’s fine,” she says shortly, shrugging out of her suit jacket and dropping it into the backseat. “Dean of the anatomy department is a giant pile of dicks, but for once, the law is on our side. And it’s not like we’re not used to dealing with dicks.”

“Yeah, but…” He trails off, carefully shifting the box from the roof of the car into the floorboards of the front seat. “Alright.”

They’re most of the way to Kansas City, listening to a weird ass podcast about a town in the desert and their city sponsored poetry week, when Charlie breaks the silence. “You don’t have to do this. You can go back to the Bunker, or hang out elsewhere, while I take care of her.”

“No, I can’t,” Kevin says quietly, watching a field zip by. “I’m her only kid. I have to finish.”

Charlie nods tightly and turns the radio back up.

Hours later, Kevin is driving Charlie’s Gremlin while she follows him in a ‘borrowed’ truck, heading for a quiet area where they can set up the pyre without being disturbed. They end up in what looks like some abandoned farmland to the northwest of the city. Kevin does the best he can to ignore the body bag in the back of the truck while piling the wood and brush together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers after Charlie pointedly wanders away after they carefully place Mom’s body in the center of the pyre. “I should have called more, should have…” He pauses to wipe the tears from his face. “It doesn’t matter what I should have, does it? You’re dead. And if the past year has taught me anything, revenge won’t do much.”

Charlie stays silent, even after she comes back over, and helps him douse the entire structure with kerosene and hands him a book of matches.

“How…” Kevin coughs on the fumes before turning towards Charlie. “How do you know how to do this?”

Charlie quirks her mouth, her eyes already red-rimmed. “Girl Scouts, actually. And some other research.”

Kevin frowns, staring at the tower before lighting the matches and tossing them in. The pyre goes up in flames in a rush, crackling to life over the lumber and brush. “That’s not much of an answer.”

“You’re not the only one who’s lost both parents.” She closes her eyes and leans back against the truck. “Anyway, Girl Scouts. More than cookies. Does not include funeral pyres, but does include basic campfires and I know how to extrapolate.”

“Oh.” Kevin falls silent, watching as the flames burn higher and brighter.

It takes hours for the flames to die down and the body to burn to ash. By the time it’s done, full night has fallen and the clouds have cleared off, at least for a little while.

Kevin is staring at the sky, waiting for things to be truly over when he sees the first shooting star. It’s quickly followed by another, and then dozens more, streaking orange-white across the sky. At first he thinks it’s a meteor shower, before remembering that the next major shower isn’t for another two weeks, and even if it wasn’t…

Something about these is wrong.

“What the--” Charlie breaks off, looking up from stomping out a few embers that have rolled away from the fire. “Kev?”

Watching them, he can almost-- “The angels,” he whispers. “They’re falling.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise chapter! Because I feel like it!

The first meteor flashes across the sky, followed by dozens, hundreds more. Glancing up at the sky, Dean frowns and quickly takes the next exit off the highway, pulling to the side of the road. “Cas? What’s going on?”

Cas looks grim in the dim light, grabbing Dean’s phone when it rings angrily and hitting accept before Dean’s even gotten the car to a full stop.

Cas barely gets out more than a greeting before Charlie cuts him off, her voice tinny and panicked over the music. Cas quickly pulls the phone from his ear and punches the speaker button.

“-- And Kevin says that they’re angels, but he doesn’t know how he knows that, and honestly, as much as I want to think that just his paranoia getting to him, I--”

“Charlie, breathe,” Dean orders. “We’re seeing it too. Give us a few minutes, okay?” Turning to Cas, he covers the microphone with his thumb. “Is it?”

Cas nods, looking terrified. “But I don’t know why--” Cutting himself off, he rolls down the window to stick his head out.

Dean picks the phone up from where it rests on Cas’s thigh. “Okay Charlie. Cas is doing his thing. Where are you?”

“Uh,” Charlie pauses. “Northwest of Kansas City, uh…” a slightly hysterical giggle. “A bit east of Winchester, actually.”

Dean snorts, typing it into the map function on his phone. “Okay, you’re only like twenty minutes ahead of us. Get to the Bunker. You’ll be safe there.”

Cas pulls his head back inside, his eyes bleak in the overhead light, and grabs the phone from Dean’s suddenly nerveless hand. “Charlie, Kevin is correct. The important thing is that angels must have consent in order to possess you.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says shakily. “I know. Although, I gotta say, my price is pretty low. I--”

“You won’t,” Cas cuts her off, motioning for Dean to get the car into motion again. “Say no, keep Kevin out of their hands. Dean and I will meet you at the Bunker.” He hangs up, cutting off a half-formed word.

Probably for the best.

“More angels?” Dean asks roughly. “What happened?”

“They’re hurt, and confused,” Cas whispers. “Most haven’t been to Earth since humans achieved civilization, they don’t know what happened, why they’ve been forced out…” He drops off, staring out the window.

“Great, a bunch of loose nukes, waiting for some poor soul to say yes.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. If I knew…”

“ _How_ , Cas? They tossed you out on your ear, you’re not responsible for them.”

“Still, I feel at fault somehow.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not. And we’ve got bigger problems.” Dean presses harder on the gas, easing the Impala up well beyond the speed limit and approaching triple digits. “If you want something to worry about, figure out how we’re going to get my damn brother back.”

The angels keep falling, flashing gold-blue across the sky. A few of them break up, trajectory impossibly changing. Those, Dean guesses, are the ones who are taking the opportunity to _fall_ , ripping out their grace to be born human. Without thinking about it, he counts them, trying to see how much trouble they’ll be in nine months or twenty-some odd years, before giving it up.

Thousands are falling, only a few dozen are cutting out their grace. They have plenty of trouble without worrying about miracle infants next spring.

Cas’s hands twitch in his lap almost constantly, every time an angel disappears over the horizon. Reaching over, Dean grabs his hand and pulls him closer. The flinching doesn’t stop, but Cas’s shoulders leave his ears at least.

“How many?” he asks quietly.

Cas shakes his head. “Too many to count. They’re… screaming, begging for mercy…” He falls silent again for several miles. “All of them.”

Dean squeezes his hand and pushes the gas pedal even harder. He keeps willing his phone to ring, for Sam to call, even as he sprints halfway across the state. Angels can go fuck themselves, he’s got too many other things on his plate.

His phone _doesn’t_ ring, and an unfamiliar car-- not Charlie’s Gremlin-- is parked in front of the Bunker. He has to pump the brakes to avoid hitting it, sending a wave of gravel to ping off the sedan’s paint job. Frowning, Dean barely has time to get out of the car before Charlie and Kevin pulls up next to them, half-blinding Dean in the headlights.

Charlie is out of the car in a flash, flinging herself at Cas. “Dude, are you okay? You’re not affected or…”

“I’m fine, Charlie,” Cas says. “Whatever is happening--”

Dean frowns-- Cas is lying-- before clapping a hand on Kevin’s shoulder and dragging him close. “So if you just got here, who’s car is that?”

Cas tenses, pushing Charlie off gently and dropping his blade into his hand. “No one friendly.”

“If I’d known having a home base was going to involve this much company, I wouldn’t have spent so much time wishing for one,” Dean mutters, pulling his pistol from the back of his jeans.

“Maybe Sam went car shopping and picked himself up a… red Corolla,” Charlie offers hesitantly. “He’s old enough to have his own car.”

“Sam’s been touched by an angel and is god knows where,” Dean says flatly. “It’s not his.”

The door is locked tight and sealed. Dean remembers locking it, but they didn’t seal it. Not on purpose anyway.

The air recyclers-- or whatever they are-- spin back up when he breaks the seal, the emergency lights coming on in an erie repeat of last winter. Except last time, he had Sam at his back, not a falling angel, a teenage prophet, and a half-trained hunter.

It’s not that he doesn’t think Cas and Charlie can take care of themselves-- they can, no question-- it’s that he’s responsible for them. He’s always…

Dean breaks the thought off, now is not the time.

“It’s about time you arrived to let me out,” Henry calls from map room below. “What did your idiot--” he breaks off when he sees Dean glaring down from the balcony. “Where’s Sam?”

“Did he really--” Charlie stage whispers to Cas behind him. Kevin mutters something in response, too quiet for Dean to hear.

Dean ignores them. There’s not much else to do. “Out. Doing stuff.” Like hell he’s going to actually tell the truth.

The others push past him, heading down the stairs. Now that they’re behind the wards, Dean can relax a bit, but he’s still uneasy. Henry showing up at the same time the angels fall and Sam gets kidnapped… it’s too much of a coincidence.

“Kev, Char, you good? Cas?”

Kevin and Charlie are already bent over the æther readings on the main console, pointing at readings and trying to read the graphs from the cabinet below. They raise twin thumbs up before returning to their nerd spiral, ignoring everyone else in the room.

Cas nudges him down the stairs. “I’ll help make coffee.”

Dean hadn’t really planned on making coffee, hadn’t planned on doing anything that Henry might misinterpret as being welcome, but it’s too late now. “Yeah, alright.”

Henry follows them into the kitchen, sitting at the table while Dean replaces the filter and Cas refills the water. “I was expecting you boys to be here when I arrived this afternoon.”

“Yeah, had a hunt over by Kansas City. So we jetted over there to take care of it.”

“And, in the process, caused the ætheric meters to redline?”

“Yep,” Dean says, popping the p. He can feel his eyebrow starting to twitch, the stress headache he’s been fighting since Sam and Gadreel-- “That’s what we did. Made the angels fall, just to fuck with you.”

Shrugging off Cas’s hand where it rests on his shoulder, he reaches for the bottle of rotgut he’d stashed under the table the last time he cleaned and takes a long swig.

Henry starts to sputter and Dean pulls out his phone, taps out another message to Sam. Hopefully, he’ll be able to wrest control back…

“Dean, are you even listening to me?”

“No.” The coffee’s done, so he slops some into two mugs, adds sugar to both, and cream to one, before tucking the whiskey under his arm and grabbing the mugs. “I’ve got other things to worry about than you getting locked inside for a few hours.”

Cas peels off, heading deeper into the Bunker, when they emerge from the kitchen. Dean aches to follow him, but instead heads back into the map room. “Coffee on the table behind you, I’ll be in the library looking up angels.”

“Dean!”

“ _What_ do you want, Henry? Besides being in my way.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“Gone,” Dean bites out, pulling the first five books off the shelves and dropping them by his chair. “Angel went poof, took Sam along for the ride.”

Henry stares at him for a long moment. “What angel?”

“Don’t you have some mystical fish to get back to?” Dean asks coldly, meeting Henry’s eyes. “Or some dicks down in Shreveport to deal with?”

“The Stynes are--”

“Yeah, I don’t care.” Dean drags the first book over and ignores him.

* * *

Hell shakes with every impact, a rolling quake that shakes its very foundations. Destruction rains down, crushing the last of Crowley’s infinite queue into gray muck. Demons stream from whatever rat holes they’ve hidden in, trying to escape.

Abaddon swoops from above, streaming fire at a line of demons, roasting them to ash and dust, before veering up. Dancing between falling chunks of masonry, she helps the quakes along, destroying anything she can, her locusts following in her wake and consuming any survivors.

The chaos is glorious and Abaddon revels in it.

A tall spire, reaching nearly her height, emerges from the ground near Crowley’s dungeons, spearing upwards. Another one, and another. Five in all, great towers formed spontaneously from the destruction and chaos.

She rejoices, sends her locusts to create more destruction, holding her direct follows as the only ones sacrosanct. Everyone else is to be eaten, set aflame, consumed.

The dukes look to her, when the destruction is complete, waiting, for what, Abaddon has no idea.

Meg is still on Earth, tracking Crowley so she can drag him before the throne. She sends Bela out among the other demons, searching out discontent, and fanning those flames against the dukes. Abaddon circles overhead, fanning the chaos.

The freedom of Hell is less than the freedom of Earth, but it is still freedom.

* * *

Sighing, Castiel carries yet another pot of coffee from the kitchen into the library to refill Dean’s mug. Charlie and Kevin drifted to their bedrooms hours ago, followed shortly by Henry. Dean is the only one still awake, still searching through texts that will tell him nothing.

“Find anything?” Castiel asks quietly, carefully pushing the bottle of whiskey out of easy reach and refilling the coffee cup.

Dean frowns, distress palpable, and shakes his head. “Not a thing. If that tracking spell doesn’t work, there’s nothing that will work better.”

“I can try--”

“Don’t bother,” Dean snaps. “There’s nothing.”

Castiel sets the coffee pot down with a thunk, pulling Dean’s chair around so he faces him. “You showed faith, and Gadreel took advantage of that. That isn’t on you.”

“So I’m just a dumbass. Thanks,” Dean says sourly.

“Dean…” Castiel starts and trails off. After a moment, he continues, “We’ve both trusted the wrong person before and someone got hurt because of it. _You’ve_ gotten hurt because of it. That doesn’t mean it’s never the right thing to do.”

“It’s Sam, Cas.” Dean shudders, groping blindly across the table for the whiskey. “Never should have let him start the stupid trials.”

“From what I understand, you didn’t really have much choice if you were going to do them at all.”

“I _always_ had a choice. If I wasn’t so fucking useless--”

“You are not--” Helplessly, Castiel watches Dean take several swigs from the bottle before he sets it back down. Stepping firmly into Dean’s space, Castiel grabs the bottle and drains it, dropping the bottle back into Dean’s hands when it’s empty. “Is there another?”

Dean gestures vaguely to the liquor cabinet. “In there, I think. That may--”

“Gin will do,” Castiel cuts him off, pulling open the cabinet doors and perusing the contents. “If we’re going to spend the evening recounting all the ways we’ve failed, I refuse to do it sober.”

Dean stares at him, his eyes bleak before pushing away from the table. He staggers when he stands, aiming towards the kitchen. “We’re going to need a lot more booze then.”

Castiel pushes him back into his chair, dropping the decanter and a couple other bottles onto the table next to Dean. “We have plenty.”

Dean matches him shot for shot. Castiel lets him, telling stories when necessary, trying to get Dean to relax enough that he can drag him to bed.

“Why are you sticking around, man?” Dean asks drunkenly when they’re on their fifth bottle. “You’ve gotta have better shit to do than to take care of my disaster.”

“I really don’t,” Castiel says, reaching out hesitantly to grab Dean’s hand where it rests on the table between them. “There is very rarely anywhere I’d rather be than here.”

“But sometimes…”

“Sometimes you don’t want me around either.”

Dean lurches forward, almost throwing himself into Castiel’s lap. “Even when I say I don’t, do,” he says seriously. “You’re a person. My person. But you can’t ever tell Sam.”

Frowning, Castiel picks Dean up. “I don’t understand, but I promise, I won’t tell Sam.” Wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist, Castiel kisses his temple. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Okay, baby.” Dean reaches up, pats Castiel’s face carefully before frowning. “Are you really here?”

Castiel nods, tightening his hold on Dean before slowly heading towards Dean’s room. The halls weave as they walk down them. Castiel glares down a turn off he doesn’t remember before stumbling down a staircase and into Dean’s room. Maybe he’s more drunk than he thought, if the Bunker is growing new hallways.

Blinking, he pushes Dean towards the bed, pausing to turn on the lamp before flipping the overhead light off.

Dean struggles upright on the bed, rapidly sobering up now that they’re not drinking anymore. He barely looks at Castiel while stripping out of his boots and outer layers. Castiel thinks he catches Dean glancing at him, but the light is too low to know for sure.

The longing pours off Dean, almost enough to drown him, overpowering the panic that fills angel radio, the occasional actual prayer from those who confuse him with Cassiel. Somehow, the only thing Dean wants in this moment… is Castiel.

Kicking off his shoes, Castiel takes the other side of the bed, allowing Dean to drunkenly octopus around him. It won’t last-- the bed is barely big enough for both of them-- but maybe this will do something to ease Dean’s sleep.

* * *

Sam’s missing, and it’s his fault. Even days later, the words carve themselves deeper into Dean’s bones with every dead end. Charlie and Kevin won’t come near him anymore, working on their own projects in the relative safety of their own rooms or the far reaches of the Bunker. He’s not seen Henry in days, although Dean’s certain that he hasn’t left.

Books go missing and come back without him seeing them, food appears at his elbow at regular intervals. Dean knows that someone is keeping the place ticking over, but he… he has no idea. His only focus is finding Sam, finding Gadreel, figuring out a way to expel Gadreel without Sam dying…

Everything else fades to the background as unimportant.

Charlie slams his phone onto his book. “It’s been ringing off the damn hook. Answer the stupid thing already.”

Blinking away the faded Latin he’s been staring at for hours, Dean accepts the call just to make it stop ringing. “‘Lo?”

“Finally, squirrel,” Crowley says exasperated. “I’ve been calling for three days. Or do you think I just call to chat?”

“I’m busy,” Dean bites out. “What do you want?”

“To help you with your demon problem. You are still a hunter, yes?”

“I don’t have a demon problem. I have an angel problem.” He drops the phone on the table, fighting with it to end the call.

“I can give you Abaddon,” Crowley yells in a rush. “Assuming you still care about her.”

Dean drops the book back onto the table and picks up the phone, reaching for his coffee-- stone cold again. “She’s locked in Hell. All the angels have been cast out of Heaven, and someone is wearing Sam as a meatsuit. Hell bitch is really low on my priority list.”

“If you think she’s going to be content with Hell for very long, you’re far stupider than I ever thought.”

“And you’re just… offering to help out of the goodness of your heart? No. What’s the catch?”

“Hell’s been quiet, hasn’t it? No demons since Abaddon’s failed incursion. Think there might be a reason behind that?”

Dean closes his eyes, rubbing his temples before shoving his hand through his hair. “Alright. You have my attention.”

“Some things have to be discussed in person. Stop hiding, and I’ll find you.”

Dean sighs, takes another drink of coffee. “There’s a bar in Smith Center, The Milton. I’ll meet you there in a couple hours.”

“Fine,” Crowley bites out. “Don’t be late.”

Dean rolls his eyes and ends the call, staring down at the book in front of him. Next week’s coming attractions, as previewed by the fucking king of Hell. Because this is his life now.

Henry comes in, hair damp, holding Dad’s journal in one hand. “I found this… Did you leave this in my room?”

“Thought it might help you get to know Dad. Since you don’t understand how hunters are made.”

“I…”

“Whatever. I’ve got a meeting, so I’m going to get cleaned up.” Dean slams away from the table, brushing past Henry.

“A meeting? With who? Do they have anything to do with your brother’s disappearance?” Henry grabs Dean’s arm, spinning him around.

“Yeah; the King of Hell; and probably not,” Dean rattles off. “Although he might be the _former_ king of Hell. I’ll make sure to get all the gossip while we’re talking.”

“Are you insane?”

“Probably.” Dean shrugs off Henry’s hand. “But Crowley’s never screwed us before, not when his ass is at risk too.”

“Does Miss Bradbury know about this? Castiel?”

“What’s with the twenty questions?” Dean asks. “You’ve never given a shit about what I do before.”

“That was when Sam was keeping you in check.”

“Right. Forgot.” Dean goes cold, backing away from Henry. “Can’t let the stupid ape get above his station.” Guess Dad’s journal was useless after all.

Marching down the hallway, he can hear Henry start to say something before falling silent.

The silence grows as he showers and shaves, gets dressed. He doesn’t see anyone on his way out, although he hears Charlie and Cas teasing Kevin about something in the kitchen.

He picks through his tapes when he gets to the car. Nothing really feels right until he gets to one of the Mom’s favorites-- one of the few Dad kept. Sgt. Pepper’s it is.

Donnie is already pouring his beer by the time Dean opens the door. “Just the beer?”

“For right now, yeah,” Dean nods towards the pool table. “You mind if I play a couple rounds while I wait for my friend?”

“Yeah, go for it.” Donnie waves him off.

Dean takes his beer and sets up for a game, planning on just blowing off some steam until Crowley shows.

“Where’s your brother?” Georgia asks, leaving her usual stool and grabbing the other cue.

Dean snorts and gestures for her to break. “You just want to watch him bend over the table.”

“I’m an old woman,” she says, taking her shot. “It’s one of the few pleasures in life left to me.”

“You keep saying that, like I don’t see you flirting every chance you get.” Dean shakes his head. “Sam’s, uh… indisposed at the moment.”

“I told you Sam ran off with a girl!” Georgia crows over to Donnie at the bar. “That’s the only reason you two wouldn’t be here.”

“Something like that.” Dean shrugs his acceptance.

Georgia reaches up, pats his cheek. “He’ll be home from his sex-cation soon enough. Then you two can go back to whatever it is that you don’t tell us about.” She grins up at him before stepping back so he can take his shot.

Dean’s pretty sure Georgia used to hustle for a living the same way he still does-- their matches are almost always decided purely on luck when they’re just playing for something to do. Even if she didn’t, she’s far better at running off the occasional group of college assholes than Dean is-- they get out and stay out after getting their asses beat by a woman in her sixties with her gray hair braided into a crown.

They manage two games before Crowley shows up, teasing each other and showing off some trick shots to entertain Donnie and the rest of the regular crowd. Georgia sinks the eight ball on the second game, a complicated shot that bounced off three rails at precise angles before dropping into the pocket directly in front of her. Their audience cheers and laughs and it’s almost enough to make Dean forget about everything that’s going on.

It lasts for a few seconds before he’s distracted by the door slamming open and Crowley blowing in like a storm. Crowley is… the only word for it is rumpled.

“Put his drink on my tab,” Dean calls over to Donnie, handing his cue to some trucker. “Thanks for the game, beautiful.” He smiles at Georgia.

“ _That’s_ your friend?” She asks scornfully, frowning at Crowley’s back. “Be careful with him. He’s not what he seems.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. Maybe she’s not as much of a civilian as he thought. “I’ll watch my ass.”

Settling in at one of the booths, Dean watches as Georgia glares daggers at Crowley before he brings over another beer for Dean and a-- “What _is_ that?”

Crowley glances at the glass in front of him before looking at Dean. “I am fairly certain you know what a margarita is. I’m not sure your bartender knows however.”

Dean rolls his eyes and takes a drink of his beer. “Wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”

“I lost control of Hell because of you assholes,” Crowley spits. “You owe me. Now, are you going to listen? Because demons are going to be on your asses as soon as Abaddon realizes that it’s only her that’s being kept in Hell. Where’s Samantha?”

“If I knew that, I’d be there, not sitting here talking to you.” Dean swallows again.

“Touchy touchy.” Crowley falls silent, tapping his finger against his glass.

It’s not just that his suit is wrinkled, but it’s _dirty_ in a way Dean’s never seen Crowley get before. Spots of dried mud decorate the sleeves of his jacket, mostly brushed off, but still present. The cuffs of his jacket are worn, and his tie is water spotted. “You’ve been deposed. Because of us?”

“You certainly didn’t help,” Crowley says bitterly. “The King, acting more and more human while the last fucking Knight rips herself free and promises a return to the old ways.” He snorts, taking a long drink of his margarita. “I’m lucky I survived.”

Abaddon. On top of Sam being possessed and the angels falling. Awesome. Dean picks at the label on his beer bottle before looking back up. “Alright. Abaddon. What’s her deal?”

“She was the second knight and the only survivor, powerful in ways you can’t imagine. She’s already overtaken Hell… Once she forces her way back topside?” Crowley blows out a breath. “She’ll make Lilith look like child’s play.”

“You’re talking Lucifer levels.”

“Lucifer wanted humans gone. A petulant child breaking daddy’s toys, but he didn’t want to destroy the whole of creation. Abaddon wants destruction and chaos. Sending it all up in flames would be a bonus.”

Dean jerks his head up, stares at Crowley in disbelief. “That doesn’t sound much different.”

“Uncle Luci had a plan and a prophecy. Ruin those, he pouts and sulks and does terrible things to your brother while in prison, but he’s a non-issue. Abaddon…”

“Just wants to watch the world burn.”

“And be eaten alive by locusts. Just to start.” Crowley looks terrified, which is a first.

Dean stays silent, trying to figure out Crowley’s angle. “What do you want? I can’t take down a Knight of Hell on my own and the Colt’s gone.”

“The Colt’s useless,” Crowley snorts. “There’s only one thing that can kill a Knight. Help me find it.” Crowley finishes his margarita. “Soonest, preferably. Before her foot soldiers catch up with me.”

“Her minions-- tall assholes, limbs too long, scar the floor with their steps?”

“That would be them,” Crowley says slowly. “Have you seen one?”

“Hunter buddy did, last week. Called to see if I knew anything about them when it ran a demon out of his bar.”

Crowley frowns. “He didn’t follow?”

Dean shrugs. “Demon on demon violence isn’t going to get many hunters worked up. Didn’t get Rudy worked up either, just curious.”

“Avoid them. They’re monstrous, even for Hell.”

“Gotcha. About this weapon we can use to kill Abaddon…”

“The First Blade. Specifically, the weapon Cain used to kill Abel. It pops up occasionally in the stories, but nothing solid, and nothing at all since the Knights were all but wiped out.”

Dean sighs and nods, unable to hide his lack of excitement. “Research. Awesome.” He looks over at the bar, where Donnie and Georgia are talking. At least he got a little bit of time to relax before having to dive back in. This sounds like something Sam would enjoy. “I’ll… see what I can find in between searches for Sam. Maybe we’ll luck out and Abaddon will stay nice and contained until the angel crisis is over.”

Crowley doesn’t even respond, just stands and rebuttons his suit jacket before walking out the door.

Dean watches him go before shaking his head and heading back to the bar to close out his tab.

* * *

It takes years for the landscape of Hell to fully stabilize after the quakes stop, the dukes rejecting her rule and recreating their own fiefdoms-- towers built strong enough to withstand her rage with barren wasteland between them. They vary according to the duke’s desires, reflecting the intrinsic essence of their fief and their power. Willowy and brutal, they grow, sheltering the demons within from her rage. Even the Pit, masterless though it is, creates a tower-- shorter than the others, squat and ugly, any openings hidden in the deep crevices of the sides. She suspects they’re building tunnels between them to allow commerce and movement, but doesn’t care.

She should have destroyed them all when she had a chance, rather than trust they would honor their oaths. They’re demons after all, lying and oath breaking is what they _do_.

Abaddon paces around the Cage, listening to Lucifer’s torment. Occasionally, she darts forward, attempting to break the warding before driven back. Her temper grows, destroying more, killing the few demons who venture into the icy depths.

Bela approaches slowly, cautiously, shying away when Abaddon’s temper flares. “What?” Abaddon roars, her voice echoing across the ice.

“Several demons, shedim, have returned. They found a gate to Earth that should allow you passage, my Queen.”

“Should? What good does that do me?” Abaddon growls quietly where she sits, hunched in preparation of another attack on the Cage. Her wings shift restlessly, adjusting to the changing currents.

“A devil’s gate is easier to force open than a new rift,” Bela points out hesitantly. “Thin places, where a certain degree of crossover is expected. Heaven won’t be looking for a new incursion from there.”

Abaddon’s tail lashes angrily before she launches herself into flight. Circling the vast ice field, she watches everything in her domain.

Except it’s _not_ her domain-- the dukes might be terrified vermin, hiding in their holes, but they won’t stay cowards forever. Eventually, their stupidity and pride will overcome their cowardice and then…

Landing lightly, she meets Bela’s eyes and forces her to the ground with a giant claw. “You will take me to this exit. You will not breathe a word of this to anyone else.”

“Of course, my queen,” Bela gasps out under the weight. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Releasing her, Abaddon stands back, watching Bela closely. She’s… bigger, as she shifts back to her true form, blood soaked fur overtaking patchy and burned skin. Her fur ripples with every quick dart from cover to cover, leathery black wings folded tightly against her back until they reach one of the giant chasms opened in a quake.

Abaddon pushes herself off the ledge, dropping until she snaps out her wings and soaring upwards on the draft. Rolling slightly, she watches below to see how Bela gets across, despite being able to smell Earth not terribly far away.

Bela tips her head to the side, watching Abaddon, before shaking herself. Her wings flap loosely against her back. Bouncing lightly to thrust herself upwards, she claws her way into the air, frantically flapping to keep herself aloft before squeaking and diving across the canyon.

Amused by her attempts, Abaddon climbs above her, timing her down stroke for Bela’s upstroke.

Bela’s wings, barely big enough to hold her anyway, collapse under the draft, sending her spiraling into the cliff face below.

Abaddon dives after her, folding her wings back to pick up speed, snapping at Bela’s unprotected back as she passes. Blood erupts, splashing through the air to stain Abaddon’s hide. Wrenching open her wings, Abaddon watches Bela smash into the gray stone before flying out of the canyon and towards the scent of Earth.

The gate is unguarded, a simple cave mouth that blows fresh air where there should be none.

Abaddon sniffs it, grinning in satisfaction at the lack of sulfur that blows through. It smells… not precisely terrible, but definitely of Earth and spring and all the things that she hates.

The area where she emerges is bleak, barely greening with spring. Looking around, she thinks about returning to Hell, coming back with a force large enough to make an impact, but… No. There are other things she needs to do first. She sets her locusts free, watching as they overtake the banks of a small stream before following in their wake as they consume every living thing before her.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, I posted a surprise chapter on Tuesday. You can find it right here. [Chapter 16](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19474072/chapters/52877476)

Frowning, Gadreel aimlessly wanders the small city, following the crowds of people flooding along the sidewalks, chatting and shopping in the chill afternoon air.

He is starting to wonder if he shouldn’t find some of the other angels, see if he can convince them that he has been wronged. If he can convince a few-- the ones _sympathetic_ to Lucifer’s cause, maybe, but did not fall-- he will have a greater chance to convince others.

“Hey, brother, can you spare some change?” A dirty hand extends a paper cup, a handful of change in the bottom, while the narrow face peers up at him. The weak sunlight nearly obscures the glow of grace and the tattered remnants of their wings in the doorway.

“You’re an angel.” Gadreel stares back, disgusted, before dipping a hand into his pocket and dropping Samuel’s entire wallet into their lap. “Have some respect for your vessel.”

“As are you,” they respond with a snort. “Yet… you are hidden, locked away within a vessel, and I do not recognize you.”

“I have not been among the Host for an eternity.” The headache is pounding now, Sam screaming in dismay. “I would be amazed if you did.”

Their eyes narrow, mouth opening to shout.

Gadreel drops his sword into his hand and stabs them through the heart. “I’m sorry.” Crouching, he slides their eyes shut and rearranges their coats to hide the hole. No one should look twice until hours from now, when he is far from here.

* * *

“Are you insane?” Kevin shouts across the library, spinning on his heel to face Henry. “You want to invite some family you barely know to stay here? You said yourself that you hadn’t heard of them until you went looking for the Men of Letters.”

“Eldon Styne is a _good_ man, a pillar of his community. His heirs have as much right to study here as mine do.” Henry leans back in his chair, sipping from the coffee cup at his elbow. Knowing the Winchesters, Kevin is pretty sure that the coffee is half whiskey, but it might be half rum-- they still haven’t replaced what Dean and Cas drank last week.

“Just like Crowley was a good man?” Kevin snaps. “I… This isn’t _just_ your sanctuary,” he tries again. “We have two major projects going on with a third on the horizon. We can’t spare anyone to babysit them.”

“Young man--”

“Oh, fuck you,” Kevin snaps before storming out.

Kevin sighs before kicking his shoes into the corner of the gym he found a few weeks back and stretching. He spares a moment to wish he was wearing his gi before sucking it up and dealing with jeans. Might as well get used to them now-- the way his life is going, he’s going to need this far more than his mom ever thought he would.

Dean waits until he’s finished with his warm up before interrupting. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Is talking about it gonna make it not happen?” Kevin asks snidely.

Dean shrugs and leans against the door frame. “I don’t know. All I got was yelling and running.”

“Henry wants to invite the Stynes to live here and study. He doesn’t have the right to cut them off from their birthright or something.”

“Oh, _hell_ no. That ain’t happening.” Dean pushes himself away from the wall. “I’m not putting you in their cross hairs, not if I can help it.”

Kevin raises an eyebrow, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “You put me on a boat rather than deal with me before. What’s changed?”

“This place?” Dean waves a finger around. “Is safer than any houseboat owned by Garth’s third cousin or whatever. And even if it wasn’t, the Stynes are slimy. Something ain’t right with them.”

“Henry’s not going to stop just because you told him no.”

“Yeah.” Dean snorts. “Pretty sure I could tell him that water is wet and he’d fight me on it.” He pauses, looking around the room before shaking his head. “I’ll find a distraction. You good here?”

Kevin nods slowly, trying to figure out what Dean’s planning.

“Awesome. I’ll get him out your hair for a couple days.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Kevin offers. “For anything to help with Sam.”

“Alright,” Dean says, knocking a knuckle against the door frame. “I’m sure there’s a ghost somewhere in a day’s drive at least. I’ll drag Henry to deal with that.”

Kevin watches him disappear down the hallway before turning back to his workout.

An hour later, Dean and Henry stomp past the entrance to his little gym, heading towards the gun range at the end of the hall. Their shouting is drowned out by a handful of gunshots before they stalk back towards the main living areas.

Kevin wipes the sweat from his face before escaping to his room. He needs a shower and then, maybe, a talk with Cas about what his options are.

* * *

Dean stares at Henry from across the kitchen island, hands braced. “Henry, dude. We have Kevin _fucking_ Tran, prophet of the _fucking_ Lord living here. I get that you trust the Stynes, that you’re sure that they don’t mean him any harm. But that’s not good enough. Not after the fiasco with Crowley.”

“Yes, your ‘prophet,’” Henry says dryly. “Tell me again why he’s not under the protection of the angels again? In the desert?”

“Because the leviathan ate his angel protectors. Shortly before demons kidnapped him and his mom.” Dean sucks in a breath, trying to stay calm. He’s lost track of how many times he’s explained this, but definition of insanity whatever. “And, in case you missed it, all the angels fell. I don’t care what you need to prove to the other Men of Letters or their bastard offshoots. They’re not coming here.”

“What do you propose?”

For them to fuck off and die, Dean doesn’t say. Reaching behind him, he tosses a Men of Letters case folder on the counter. “Ghost hunt. Nice and easy, will get both of us out of here so we’re not driving Kevin and Charlie nuts.”

Henry flips through the file, pausing over the antique photograph that’s tucked inside, and reading over what’s already written. “This is old. Has there been an uptick in incidents or…”

Dean shrugs. “Battle sites are always haunted. Some years have more activity than others, but one-fifty has tended to get gruesome over the past couple of years.”

“And this woman, you think you can identify her?”

“Let’s find out.”

Henry stays irritable and sullen the entire drive to Cape Girardeau, with one word answers to any question Dean asks. He spends most of it poking at his phone, researching the battle grounds and anyone that pops up as being connected to the battle or ghost.

They’re following the river south from St. Louis before Henry finally puts down his phone and looks out the window. “There’s a ghost in the cemetery. They call it the Tapping Ghost, but the past couple of weeks, it’s accelerated.”

“Sounds like our sort of thing,” Dean points out. “Particularly with the battle anniversary coming up.”

Henry hrmphs, and leans back in the seat. “What started as an invisible hand tapping people on the shoulder if they were foolish enough to enter the cemetery after dark has graduated to violent shaking by a woman in a nightgown.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and leans a bit heavier on the gas. “Great.”

The cemetery is right off the river-- close enough that it’s flooded at least a couple of times since it was founded, which could make finding the correct grave difficult-- and old enough that some of the older practices for founding a graveyard probably hold true as well.

So, they’re probably avoiding a black dog while they’re digging up the wrong grave. Awesome.

Henry is still sulking when they reach the motel, so Dean leaves him there with the laptop and instructions to keep researching while Dean goes in search of more information.

Even after seven years, Mrs. Robinson remembers him and is more than happy to give him Cassie’s new number, especially after he reassures her that the current ghost is much, much, older than Cyrus and has nothing to do with her.

Swallowing, Dean types the number in and hits call before he can overthink it.

The phone rings twice before Cassie answers, “This is Cassie.”

Shit. “Heya, Cassie. It’s Dean. You got a moment?”

There’s a long pause before she responds. “Uh, yeah. Give me a sec.” The surprise in her voice hurts more than he thought it would. The background noise on the other side abruptly drops. “What’s going on?”

He snorts. “I’m in town for a job. Was hoping I could ask you some questions.”

“A job or _a job_?” She asks. “Does this have anything to do with--”

“No. Your mom is fine, you’re fine. I just need some information about a graveyard.”

She pauses, the background noise picking back up for a brief moment before quieting again. “Honestly, this date is going so badly, you’re doing me a favor.”

“I’m happy to provide any and all excuses you could possibly need. Need a ride?”

“Christ, no. I’ll uh… twenty minutes at the Library, at Main and Independence. You’ll like that one, it’s a hole.”

Dean makes a face, unsure how he feels about that characterization. “If you say so.”

“Just make sure you get a table in the back. Last thing I need is this guy walking by and seeing us.”

Dean leans against the motel brickwork. “This isn’t a date.”

“Damn straight it’s not. See you in a bit.” She hangs up.

Dean frowns at the dark screen before shaking his head and looking up the address.

The bar is some hipster bullshit attempt at a dive, deep red walls and dark woodwork paired with cheap wallpaper printed to look like bookshelves. He grabs a beer from the bar, rolling his eyes at the college kids already halfway to drunk and snagging a two-top in the back.

Cassie, when she finally gets there, looks amazing. There’s no hiding that she’s dressed for a night out, but hopefully that’s common enough to not draw attention. She stops by the bar long enough to grab a beer and then heads his way. “Hey, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry as she drapes her jacket over the back of her chair. Taking a quick drink of his beer, he croaks, “Hi, Cassie. You look--”

She snorts. “Save the flattery. I look like someone who just walked out on a date with a _Libertarian_. Because I did. Let’s get this done so I can go home and drown my sorrows in cheaper and better beer.”

“Why’d you even say yes?” Dean ducks at her glare and starts over. “What can you tell me about the ghosts in the Lorimer cemetery?”

“That’s kid stuff. Most of its fake,” she says. “Of course… yeah. Alright. Do you have a specific one you’re looking for?”

“Uh… the tapping ghost. How many are there?”

“Stories have at least three.” Cassie shrugs. “But stories also have a tunnel from the hospital to the cemetery for removal of inconvenient bodies. But shoulder-tapper is the best documented.”

What she can tell him isn’t much more than what Henry found, or what the Men of Letters’ file had from fifty years ago. But it helps to have a local perspective, particularly since Cassie can narrow down the area.

“Where’s your brother anyway?” she asks as they’re finishing their beer. “You’re not hunting alone, are you?”

Dean ignores the pang of guilt-- he should be searching for Sam and dragging him back-- and shakes his head. “My, uh, grandfather, actually. He’s waiting at the motel.”

“Your grandfather? I thought…” She sits back. “Alright, Winchester. Go grab another round. I have questions.”

Dean snorts, checking the time. “It’s late and Henry and I don’t get along that well to begin with. Rain check?”

“Breakfast comes with with additional questions, just warning you.”

“Always the journalist.” Dean sighs before nodding. “I can deal with that. You won’t believe me anyway.”

He walks her back to her car-- he _can_ be a fucking gentleman sometimes, _Sammy--_ and for a brief moment, when she sways towards him, he thinks she’s going to kiss him. The excuse is already on his tongue before she backs away, digging in her purse for her keys.

“Thanks for the drink, Dean,” Cassie says, pulling him into a hug. “Don’t be such a stranger.”

Dean wraps his arms around her and squeezes. “Next time we’re in this part of the state, I’ll give you a call. Say hi to your mom for me?”

She nods, dropping into her car and backing out of the spot.

Dean lifts his hand in a wave before heading back to the Impala and motel.

“Does going out for a burger generally take you three hours?” Henry snarks as soon as Dean walks through the door. “Or did you find another way to spend your time?”

Dean closes his eyes briefly while shrugging out of his jacket and flannel so he can change into something he doesn’t care about getting muddy. “Met up with a friend who grew up around here, asked her about the cemetery.”

“And?”

“She and her friends only ever heard of this one being active in the southeast corner. Which narrows down the possibilities.” Dean pulls the laptop away from Henry and finds a couple of genealogy sites. “Women who died around the same time as the battle and were buried in that graveyard...” Dean hmms and compares dates. “Two possibilities, only one in that corner, and conveniently, she still has a gravestone.”

“And if they’re wrong? Kids aren’t the most reliable witnesses.”

Dean snorts. “It’s a ghost. No one is a reliable witness. But Cassie is about the most reliable we’re going to find in this town.”

“Cassie, huh.” Henry grabs the laptop and spins it back around, retracing the steps Dean’s already done. “If you wanted to see your girlfriend, you could have just said so.”

“Ex-girlfriend. From ten years ago.”

Henry looks at him skeptically, but doesn’t say anything else.

Dean has no idea how the ‘I’m _maybe_ dating an angel’ conversation will go anyway, so he takes the silence as a win. “Anyway, Ms. Juden is our best bet. Unless you turned up something new?”

Henry shakes his head before checking the clock. “About what time should we--”

“Not before two,” Dean cuts him off. “Damn place is in the center of town, not even two blocks away from the bars. Last thing we need is a cop coming to investigate.” Flopping back onto his bed, he pulls his phone out and absently checks for new texts.

A couple of jokes from Charlie-- she and Kevin have knocked off for the evening and are watching eighties movies-- and a single text from Cas: _Northern New York is very boring without you._

_< < Upstate NY. Missouri with Henry isn’t boring, but is awkward._

The wait is long enough that Dean almost thinks Cas isn’t going to respond. It’s not like they’d discussed this hunt, or even that it was a possibility.

_> > Is everything okay? I can help._

_< < Everything’s fine. Just a ghost hunt, nothing special._

_> > There’s nothing here. I’ll meet you back at the Bunker._

Dean frowns at the text, Cas’s testiness coming through, but nothing else comes. Reaching over and plugging his phone in, he flips on the TV. There might be a new episode of Dr. Sexy.

Henry wakes him from his light doze a few hours later, slapping his hand on the desk. “It’s time, Dean.”

“Right. Yeah. Give me a moment.” Dean blinks away the grogginess so he can grab their gear.

The graveyard is close enough they could have walked, but Dean doesn’t like being that far away from transport when there’s going to be cops nearby. And there’s definitely going to be cops around. It’s enough to make him wish for the good old days, when boneyards were on the outskirts of town, not in the center.

It’s only once they’re over the fence that Dean hears the low growl of a dog. “Shit. The black dog.”

“And you didn’t think to warn me that this was a possibility?” Henry shoots back.

“Yeah, sure. Henry, there might be a black dog.” Dean whispers harshly, pointing his flashlight around to orient himself. “You draw him off while I deal with Casper.”

“Dean, I--”

“Go!” Dean orders.

Henry takes off, whistling quietly and heading in the opposite direction. Dean watches him go, the ghostly dog flashing between shadows before grabbing his shovel and hurrying down the hill.

The ghost taps him on his shoulder as soon as he’s in the right section of graves. Spinning around, Dean catches a brief glimpse of her-- pale nightgown, dark wavy hair falling over her shoulders-- before she disappears again.

“Shit.” Dean scrambles to find the right grave. Henry wails in the distance over the sound of the black dog barking. He needs to move quick. “Leave me alone, Ellen. I’ve got work to do.”

Finally, he spots the correct marker, splashing his flashlight over it. Three here-- Ellen, William, and George-- and a second marker a few feet away-- James. Dean does the math quickly in his head. Ellen was in her thirties, but William and George were only a few years old.

And all dead within days of one another, only a couple weeks after the battle. That doesn’t bode well for this going smooth.

Dean winces when Henry lets out a particularly loud yell and starts digging quickly.

The temperature, already brisk, drops further. Dean’s breath fogs in the cold. Ellen’s occasional tapping turns into a firm grip. She yanks Dean around by the shoulder, forcing him to look at her.

“You hurt them. You hurt _all_ of them.” The ghost shoves him. “You never go home either.”

Dean trips over a broken headstone and sprawls across the ground, hand spasming around the shovel handle. “I’ve not hurt anyone,” Dean gasps out. “Not today, anyway.”

The ghost flickers before coming back, stronger. “It’s all over you. The longing you won’t give into. Just like my James, you never come home.” She shoves her hand into Dean’s chest, fingers latching behind his ribs and _pulling_.

Dean screams, dark spots dancing across his vision.

Henry runs in, sliding on the damp grass, swinging his shovel around like a madman. Ellen disappears the moment he makes contact with her.

Gasping, Dean slumps back, reaching up to rub his chest. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Henry says, pushing himself to his feet and offering Dean a hand up. “Shall we get to work?”

Dean takes it, looking around warily for the black dog. “Where’s your friend?”

Henry shrugs, already shoving his shovel into the grass and dirt. “She just needed to be reminded of her duties. They’re not evil, you know. They’re guardians.”

“They’re no more evil than any other dog.” Dean grunts and starts digging. “Doesn’t mean they’re not a pain in the ass.”

“It’s really quite a simple spell to distract them…” Henry starts.

Between the two of them, the shallow grave, and the black dog that keeps running Ellen off, they make pretty quick work of the grave. Bracing himself, Dean reaches down and pries up the rotten wood of the coffin lid.

Dean grabs the flashlight he’d dropped to make sure they’ve found the right coffin. He wouldn’t put it past this one to have three buried on top of each other. Three rounded lumps gleam back up at him, eye sockets filled with mud. “Oh. Mom and both kids. Well, that explains a few things.”

Henry peers over the edge with his flashlight. Across from him, the black dog flickers into sight for a brief moment, lets out an excited bark, and then disappears. Dean can’t see where it goes, but Henry straightens up and watches for a moment before looking back down into the grave. “Hopefully, now that we have the grave dug, this will go easier.”

Dean nods, climbing out to grab the salt and kerosene.

Ellen flickers back into sight in front of him, tossing him aside. Dean lands with a grunt at the base of a nearby tree, breathless.

“You can’t just leave things alone,” she yells. “Always joining the cause, always wanting to be a hero. You’re somewhere else, when you should be home, when you should be protecting your family, when you should be--”

Coughing, Dean raises his hands to ward her off. “I’ve never abandoned _anyone_.”

“Yes, you have,” she screams harshly. “You never go home.”

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest, and his vision starts to go fuzzy at the edges. A few feet away, Henry struggles to light the matches and all Dean can think is that he’s going to die here, because he doesn’t call Cas often enough.

* * *

Castiel is sitting in a park when what remains of his grace burns with Dean’s sudden terror.

He doesn’t even pause, taking flight between one step and the next. He’s at Dean’s side in seconds, just in time to watch the ghost go up in flames. Henry stands over the grave, splitting his attention between the contained fire and something else, something more concerning than Dean’s near death.

“Dean?” Castiel gently rubs Dean’s chest, trying to soothe away the pain. “Are you alright?”

Dean groans and coughs, leaning forward. “Cas? When did you--”

“You were hurt and needed me.” Shoving a hand behind Dean to support him, he forces him to lean back.

Looking around, Castiel finally sees what Henry was watching when the graveyard’s black dog trots over, invisibly, to sit at Dean’s feet.

Henry detours around it when he comes over to settle on Dean’s other side. “Dean, I…”

“You got her.” Dean pauses before looking up at Castiel. “I am okay, right?”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel double-checks the beat of Dean’s heart before nodding. “Your normal rhythm has been restored. Which is just as well, since I can’t heal you.” He nods towards the fire burning merrily a few feet away. “Was that the ghost?”

Dean groans and nods. “Should be. Wasn’t expecting her to blow up like that.”

Henry purses his lips, glancing over his shoulder. “A woman in white. Those are far more rare than the lore would suggest. I’d like to know why she suddenly went rabid after over a century of near peace.”

Castiel glances at Dean, still trying to subtly stretch out the pain from being tossed into a tree. “Off hand, I believe it was probably the being forced out of the veil.”

Dean blows out a breath before shaking his head. “Yeah, we’re not having that discussion here. I need a shower first. And a drink.”

It’s not that easy of course. Castiel steals the shovel away from Dean every time he tries to help refill the grave, forcing him to sit down. “You had a _heart attack_ and I can’t heal you. No.”

Henry watches the interplay in silence, shaking his head when Castiel raises an eyebrow in irritation.

Dean stands for a while before sitting and leaning against a nearby headstone with a hand on his shotgun, watching for something. It takes several minutes for Castiel to realize he’s watching for the black dog.

“The dog is over here,” he says, gesturing to where it’s sitting at attention at the foot of the grave. “It has no interest in hurting anyone.”

“Tell that to my twisted ankle,” Henry says sourly. “It was certainly happy enough to chase me all over.”

“You entered as intruders,” Castiel points out, pausing briefly to stretch his hands. “If you had entered through the gates, there would not have been a problem.”

“All those times I’ve been chased around graveyards, treed, bitten, clawed, and it’s because I was trying to avoid the cops?” Dean asks incredulously. “How the hell did I not know this?”

“Black dogs are traditionally protectors--” Henry starts.

“I meant the entering by the gates, genius.” Dean glances nervously towards the dog, but shifts his hand off the trigger. “I suppose once they figure out we’re hunters…”

“They generally wish to shepherd their charges towards the afterlife as well, yes.” Castiel picks his shovel back up and resumes filling the grave.

Dean claims first shower once they’re back at the motel, grabbing clean clothes and jumping into the bathroom to make it obvious he’s avoiding something.

“So, you and Dean…” Henry says out of nowhere.

That would be it. “Yes?”

“Is this a normal thing between you, or…”

“Do I assist on hunts as often as I can? Yes.”

Henry frowns, staring at John’s journal on the bed beside him before shaking his head. “As long as you treat each other well. I’ve known others--” He cuts himself off. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sitting back on the bed, Castiel watches him, thinking about the TV shows Dean has forced him to watch. “I believe the appropriate response is to thank you for your support.”

Henry nods stiffly, picking up the journal and leafing through it again.

Dean tumbles out of the bathroom a couple minutes later, damp hair spiked up roughly from the towel. “Okay. What’s going on with the veil?” He leans against the bathroom counter, watching Castiel carefully.

“When the angels fell,” he starts. “It caused a chain reaction. Souls enter Heaven faster than Heaven can accept them. It’s complicated and I can explain the metaphysics if you want but--”

“Too many souls, you gotta make space for ‘em, so there’s a pile up.” Dean crosses his arms.

“Essentially, yes. That space-- the individual heavens-- was created by angels.”

“And without angels, all those folks are just, what? Hanging out in the veil?”

“Just like a ghost.” Castiel nods. “Any ghost that already existed will be energized, new ghosts will be formed at a greater rate… We need to get Heaven reopened just for that.”

Dean sighs and nods. “Yeah. There’s not enough hunters as it is. Add even more ghosts and…”

“You’re talking about an apocalypse-level event,” Henry points out. “The angels falling… that’s one of the seals, isn’t it?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “We’re post-apocalypse already. Twice. Seal or not, nothing is going to change regarding the Cage.”

Henry stares at Dean. “That… What?”

“Old news, dealt with, don’t really want to deal with it again.” Dean turns to slop some whiskey into the plastic cups behind him. He hands both Castiel and Henry a cup before looking down and taking a deep breath. “Right. Demon knights and angels and ghosts, oh my.” He shoots back his drink and refills his cup before moving over the bed Castiel is sitting on. “Budge over and lose the coat.”

* * *

“Why are you here, Abaddon?” Cain invisibly demands as soon she reaches his property line.

Abaddon glares towards the house, half hidden in the clearing at the bottom of the valley. “It’s time to return to Hell. Pick up your Blade and lead the armies, as you were meant to do.”

The shedim who follow her pace along the property line, trampling the grass and bushes into the dust. The leader snorts, throws his head back before leaning against a tree and casually pushing it over. Soon, they’re all doing it, felling trees and crushing the undergrowth until the line is clear.

“I’m retired,” Cain calls. She can see him now, clad in a billowing white suit with a ridiculous hat and netting over his head. “Retired and staying that way.”

Pushing her hair over her shoulder, Abaddon crouches and sets fire to the fallen trees with a touch. “Didn’t you learn anything from the last time? I’m more powerful than you, with less scruples.”

“Which is why you’re on that side of the ward line and can’t get any closer.” He must be using some trick to project his voice. “We’re not meant to rule, Abaddon.”

Abaddon snorts, watching as her blaze eats away the property line, breaching it and making its way down hill. The shedim fan out behind her as she follows it, consuming and destroying. When she’s only a few feet away, she says, “We have all the time in the world. Lord Lucifer is imprisoned once again, the princes scattered, the dukes in my thrall.”

Cain removes his hat, carefully setting it aside on a table on the porch. “How did you find me?”

“I know you, spent centuries under you,” Abaddon sneers, moving to the foot of the porch steps. “You would never move far from your precious Colette’s bones.”

Cain stares at her coldly and flicks a hand. Her fires are extinguished, the shedim teleported elsewhere.

“Where did you send them?”

“Back to the pit you found them. You should have left them there, some things are too dark even for us.” He sighs, seating himself on the rocker that occupies the corner of the porch while she stalks up the steps. “I discarded the Blade years ago.”

“Return with me. I-- We-- can free Hell from the bureaucracy that has sprung up in our absence, conquer the earth in Lucifer’s name, destroy Heaven…”

“No,” he says simply. “I’m done with all of that.”

Abaddon shifts, the wood of the steps cracking beneath her claws as her tail whips around, breaking several of the porch posts. The fire she breathes out parts around him, blowing past Cain with barely a breeze.

Finally, he moves, jumping over the remains of the porch railing and into the yard. He’s silent, leading her away from his house, but making no other moves.

Abaddon takes an earth shaking step, then another, before rearing up, spreading her wings so they block the sky. Pinpointing Cain, she dives forward, mouth open, flame charring the ground around him.

An invisible wall reflects her flames back, burning her, blinding. She loses track of him in the flames, can barely feel the pressure that darts up her back.

She does feel the sharp pain that lodges into the base of her skull, driving deep, immobilizing her head. She shakes herself, trying to remove the thorn, toss it ahead of her so she can crush it. The pressure stops, but the pain doesn’t.

Abaddon screams, reaching out with a wing to bat Cain away. He can’t kill her, not without the First Blade but…

Cain goes flying, landing in a crouch a few feet away. He jumps again before she can reach him, her claw landing just a fraction of a second too late.

Angrily, she transforms, resuming her human shape and stalks towards him. The knife buried in her neck bounces to the ground, harmless now. She turns towards it, intent on picking it up and flinging it at Cain, but he shouts something and she...

She can’t move, frozen in place. Abaddon screams again, roaring out her frustration to no avail. Without the shedim, she has no chance of beating him back enough to survive.

Cain stands there for a long time, watching her. “There has been enough killing. Return to Hell, rule however you wish. Stay away from me and mine.” He flicks his hand again, and she’s suddenly somewhere else, somewhere very far away from Cain.

* * *

The warning spell tied to the candle suddenly flares to life, dragging Crowley’s bleary attention from the empty syringe still sitting at his elbow. Juliet lets out a single low bark at the sudden flare, shying away from the blue-white light.

“Hush, girl,” Crowley mumbles, trying to remember who that candle is linked to. He has several, strewn carelessly across the bedside table. Red. He’d made the associations as obvious as possible… Abaddon. Red is Abaddon.

Shit.

Adrenaline scours through his veins, evaporating the loose emotional high, burning off the human blood in moments. The warning system is set for fifty miles-- if it’s active, she’s close enough to find him.

Gathering the remaining candles into his tattered jacket pocket, Crowley holds Juliet’s collar and teleports them somewhere else. He’s not quite sure where they end up, but it doesn’t matter. They won’t be staying for very long.

It’s mid-afternoon before he stops, standing in the middle of a field, stumbling slightly at the sharp slope. Juliet takes off running as soon as he’s stable, chasing a couple of placid cows before bolting the other way. He lets her run while he watches, trying to figure out what he’s going to do next.

Abaddon is free from Hell. She’s moving too fast, not strengthening her positions enough. He has plans and plots for almost every eventuality, but it’s impossible to plan for insanity and chaos.

Crowley sighs and pulls his phone from a pocket. As much as it’s too early, his only option is to start making the play for Dean.

“Hello?”

Crowley blinks at his phone before shaking his head briefly. “I was calling Squirrel, Feathers. I need to talk to him.”

“He’s driving,” Cas says shortly. “And can’t talk at the moment.”

In the background, Crowley can hear Dean demanding Cas put the phone on speaker and a third voice-- familiar, but not Sam-- arguing that they should just hang up. There’s some weird interference as well, a ghost of some sort.

“It’s urgent, and of world ending importance.”

“What do you want Crowley?” Dean cuts in.

“Abaddon’s head on a spike,” he says immediately, watching Juliet in a gully a few yards away. “Which I need you for.”

“Abaddon, the knight of Hell, Abaddon?” The third voice says. “I thought she was trapped in Hell.”

The voice clicks in Crowley’s memory-- Henry Winchester, the boys’ moronic grandfather. “You could volunteer as well, Henry. Saving the world, it’s supposedly a family business.”

“The knights can only be killed by an Archangel,” Castiel breaks in. “I fail to see how Dean can assist with that.”

“Is that the story they tell in angel Sunday school?” Crowley muses. “Huh.”

“Cut the crap, Crowley. What do you want?”

“We need to talk. Privately. Bring Feathers if you want, but Pops should probably stay home. He’s not very good at remembering who the good guys are.” Crowley hangs up and whistles for Juliet.


	18. Chapter 18

Breakfast with Cassie is tense. Ever the journalist, she spends the entire meal tossing out questions-- the last seven years, where Henry came from, the latest ghost, all of it-- in the middle of the busy diner, filled to the rafters with the post-church crowd. Cas and Henry are awkward, especially Cas, leaving most of the talking to Dean and Cassie, answering questions when asked directly, but otherwise staying silent. And then they stay awkward in the car after.

They’re outside Kansas City before the awkwardness breaks. Even then, it’s not so much that it breaks as much as it’s shattered.

Something barks in the back seat, scaring the bejesus out of Dean. Swerving off the road, heart pounding, he throws open his door, scrambling out of the car. “What the fuck?”

Henry nearly falls out of the backseat while they stare at the faded ghostly image of a dog, tongue lolling out in a doggy grin.

Cas stays put, twisting around to face it before slowly extending a hand. A pink-ish, barely there tongue, licks across the back of his hand before retracting. Cas grins, reaching over to pet her head. “She’s decided to come with us. We need her protection more than the dead do, apparently.”

Dean takes several deep breaths, trying to get his heart rate under control, looking at the ghost. At the fucking _black dog_. “Cas, man, I--”

The dog barks again, a deep noise rumbling that Dean can _feel_.

“What the fuck?” Dean sputters, throwing up a hand when it looks like Cas is just going to repeat himself. “No, really. What the fuck? How is she here? We didn’t bring anything of hers with us.”

“Technically,” Henry starts, reaching a tentative hand out to pet the ghost dog. “The spell I used to calm her down in the graveyard could, theoretically, free her from her bones and allow her spirit to roam free.”

“Which explains why there’s a phantom Cujo in my car how?”

“She’s been alone for a very long time,” Cas says quietly. “I told her she could come with us if she wanted.”

“Of course you did,” Dean sighs before glancing over at Cas. The expression on his face… yeah. Cas would feel that too, wouldn’t he? His purpose complete, unable to go home, his only hope a couple of dumbass humans so emotionally constipated they make rocks look healthy. “Fine. But she stays with you and incorporeal when she’s in Baby.”

He barely manages to suppress the shudder when a clammy tongue licks over his hand, but Cas is grinning and Dean can’t say no to that face.

Anything to keep Cas happy. Sighing, Dean climbs back into the car and pulls back onto the highway.

The ride is less awkward after that, Henry and Cas talking about spells to free spirits from their earthly bonds instead of salt and burning. Dean finds himself interested in spite of himself-- digging bodies up is a pain in the ass-- but neither of them will swear that ghosts banished that way won’t come back, so it’s useless for hunting.

Still, it’s a change from hours of silence broken only by Dean singing along with the radio.

Lebanon’s already shut down for the night when they drive through. Dean waves at the gas station, still shining in the darkness, as they pass before turning onto the long farm road that will, eventually, lead them to the Bunker. “Henry, you’re not coming with me to the meet with Crowley. Cas, what do you want to do?”

“I’m concerned that Crowley and I’s mutual dislike might hinder your negotiations.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and snorts. “I tried to turn him human, like, last month. He’s not holding it against me.”

“Because he thinks he can use that to his advantage,” Cas points out. “If you feel guilty or even soften towards him because of it--”

“I’m not an idiot,” Dean says sharply. “I’m not saying we trust him, I’m saying we hear him out.”

Cas frowns, climbing out of the car before leaning through the open window, brow furrowed. “I never said you’re an idiot. Nor implied it. I’m saying _be careful_.”

Dean frowns for a moment before popping open the door. Henry’s already hurried inside, so Dean pulls Cas close, wrapping his arms around him. “Hey. It’s cool. I’ve got this. You introduce Charlie and Kevin to your new dog, I’ll take care of Crowley.”

Cas relaxes in his arms, hugging him tightly, before kissing him.

They’ve been sharing a bed for months, whenever Cas is human enough to sleep or Dean’s nightmares are bad enough that he can only sleep with someone watching his back, but kissing is still new, still blindsides Dean every time.

He inhales sharply before relaxing into it. Kissing Cas is possibly the best part of his life, even while he’s incredibly aware that if this blows up, if Cas decides he doesn’t want to do this anymore-- Dean cuts the thought off, deepens the kiss, and lets himself enjoy.

“Better?” he asks when Cas ends the kiss.

“Yes.” Cas sighs and glances behind them. “I suppose I should let you go.”

“Come with me,” Dean offers again. “Fill me in on what you found in New York. Or didn’t find. Whatever.”

Cas snorts and shakes his head. “Go talk to Crowley. I need to check in with Hannah and the other angels who fell anyway.”

Dean frowns but lets it go. He stays put, watching Cas enter the Bunker, before pulling his phone out and calling Crowley.

“Where the hell are you?” Crowley asks grumpily. “I’ve been in this dive for hours.”

“Shut up, Crowley,” Dean says, suddenly tired. “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Jesus fuck.”

Nine hours in the car is barely a day’s drive by their standards, but Dean’s already exhausted by the time he pulls into the bar’s parking lot. Donnie’s beat up truck is in its normal spot, a fresh oil smear beneath, but Georgia’s Rav4 is missing. There’s a couple other familiar cars and trucks but no one he’s actually friends with. Just as well, he’s too tired to deal with chit chat.

“Heyya, Dean,” Donnie calls, pulling a beer and sliding it across the bar towards a trucker at the far end. “Beer or whiskey tonight?”

“Whiskey, and keep ‘em coming. It’s been a long day.”

Donnie raises an eyebrow, pouring a double and sliding it across to Dean when he reaches the bar. “Just remember, I ain’t driving your ass home.” Dean knocks it back immediately and waits for Donnie to pour him a second before turning around and searching for Crowley.

“Your Brit friend is in the corner,” Donnie says quietly. “Don’t know what he said to Georgia, but she stormed out of here a couple hours ago, pissed as a snake.”

Dean sighs and nods. “Sorry, man. I’ll make it up to you.” He takes a little bit longer to drink this one before tapping the rim of his glass.

“Screw making it up to me. She’ll be back. Make it up to her!” Donnie refills the glass, nudging it towards Dean. “I don’t care how tired you are, go deal with your friend before you come back up here. He’s scaring off folks.”

Dean grimaces, but takes the bowl of pretzels one of the truckers not-so-subtly slides him, heading towards the back booth where Crowley waits impatiently.

“Are you drunk?” Crowley asks as soon as he sits down.

Dean snorts, holds up his glass. “Not yet. Should I be?”

“You shouldn’t be drinking at all. Where’s the angel on your shoulder?”

“Somewhere else.” Dean takes a sip and fixes Crowley with a glare. “Abaddon? Or whatever?”

“How we’re going to beat her,” Crowley says smugly. “Having dear Castiel here would make Heaven’s side of this easier, but we can muddle through.”

“Did you somehow miss that Heaven’s closed for business?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. “They’re not going to be good for much of anything anytime soon.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Really, Rocky. When was the last time they were actually useful? What have they done for you lately?”

Dean tilts his head in agreement, but doesn’t say anything.

“The Knights of Hell can only be killed using the First Blade. Without it, we have no chance of standing against her.”

Dean shoots back the rest of his whiskey and stares blankly at Crowley. “And you think I know where it is? Hate to break it to you, but I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’ve been tracking it for years. Or _was_ , until a hunter named John Winchester found Abaddon’s protege, tortured her, and then sent her back to Hell.”

“That does sound like Dad.” Dean waves to get Donnie’s attention, gesturing for another round. “So, what, you think Dad knew where it was?”

“I was _hoping_ that maybe he wrote down what the demon told him. Tortured into insanity doesn’t really leave a lot of loyalty behind. So perhaps it made its way into the John Winchester Memorial Library.”

“Dad captured a lot of demons. Some he wrote everything down for, some he didn’t.” Dean sighs, pulls Dad’s journal from his pocket. “When was this?”

Crowley thinks for a moment. “April ‘99.”

Blowing out a breath, Dean thanks Donnie when he drops off a beer and another margarita before flipping the book open. It only takes a few seconds to find the right entry, skimming it quickly. “Yeah, okay. Here it is. Low-level possession case. Says she made her bones working for Abaddon, but nothing else. Kept hold of her for about a day, interrogating her, but she knew nothing about the Yellow Eyed bastard, so he sent her back to Hell.”

“What do those numbers mean?” Crowley leans forward, tapping the margin of the page.

“It’s uh, a locker combination. There might be something about the case in his storage locker or it might be a pile of useless junk. No telling.”

“And the letter? ‘T’? What’s that?”

“Jesus Christ, you’re nosy. Not a clue.”

“You _wound_ me, Winchester. I want to help!”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” Dean reaches up to rub his temples without thinking about it, trying to massage away the incoming headache. “Besides, you want to help like I want another hole in your head.”

“It’s in both our interests to get the bitch off the board as quickly as possible,” Crowley points out. “Chaos incarnate, remember?”

“Yeah, Crowley, I remember. Also remember the beating I took when you ran the last time we went up against her.”

“It’s the past, bygones!”

“It’s really not.” Draining his beer, Dean looks longingly at the bottle of whiskey Donnie has out on the bar. “But you’re right-- we do need to deal with her sooner or later.”

“Let’s go then. Let’s find Daddy’s man-cave.”

“What? You’re not coming with me.” The headache ratchets up another step. “Are you high?”

Fucking Christ, Crowley’s actually having to think about it. “Unless you’re offering, no.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

Crowley grins as he buttons his suit jacket. “You don’t. That’s what makes it fun.”

“Fucking Hell,” Dean mumbles under his breath before heading over to the bar to pay their tab.

* * *

A city sprawls ahead and above him. It’s bright lights climb the hills and cut off abruptly as the shoreline curves around, with only a few lights out on the seaside horizon-- cruise ships, he thinks, from the shape-- the skyline unfamiliar.

Sighing, Sam picks his way along the wet rocks surrounding him, trying to get back to shore from the tip of the sea rocks. Figuring out where the fuck he is can get added to the list of things to work out when he’s no longer in danger of tripping and drowning.

He’s a good twenty feet closer to shore when he spots the body, arm stretched out like a pale worm against the rocks. The closer he gets, the more blood he can smell, even over the rotting seaweed tangled around the rocks.

Blood that smells horrifyingly familiar, a distinct sulfuric tang.

It’s not the first time he’s scented demon blood since the apocalypse, far from it, but it is the first time in _years_ that the blood-lust-addiction part of his brain doesn’t light up like a siren.

And he can’t figure out why. Surely an angel so focused on escaping Heaven that he tricks Sam into consenting, that he hides away for weeks in Sam’s subconscious, surely _that_ angel wouldn’t bother to remove lifelong demon taint and addiction.

“I pray to the angel Castiel, in hopes that he--” he starts to pray, losing his balance and sprawling out on his ass. “Shit. Can you even hear me? Hopefully-- I don’t know where I am, South America maybe, I think the signs are in Portuguese anyway, what I can see. The angel is--” Sam cuts off.

The angel yanks at his consciousness, forcing him back down and out of control of his own body.

Nearly screaming with effort, Sam opens his mouth to try to expel the angel, but can’t get any further. The tidal wave of the angel’s mind flows over him, forcing him back under.

* * *

Castiel jerks out of his doze in the library, the prayer still echoing along angel radio. Sam, South America…

He can’t track the prayer back to a specific location, not with the sigils on Sam’s ribs and his own lack of grace, but there has to be something he can do.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Castiel pauses when he sees the time. Dean should have been back _hours_ ago. Determinedly pushing it from his mind-- Dean probably got caught up talking with some of the regulars at the bar-- Castiel finds Crowley in his recent calls.

“I’m busy,” Crowley snaps as soon as the phone connects.

Castiel listens closely to the background noise, but doesn’t hear anything that would tell him where Crowley is. “Angel kills in South America, probably Brazil. Do you--”

“I have, or rather had, a few assets in that area, yes,” Crowley fills in. “Thousands of tourists wanting the high life, of course I did. Until the queen bee rose and killed them all.”

“All of them.” Castiel sighs and hangs up. Useless.

Sam’s prayer has faded entirely, leaving only a sense of urgency with no direction. Gadreel has probably taken back over, making it even more pointless to try and locate them. If he has any intelligence at all, he’ll move them someplace completely different.

Still frowning, he heads towards the map room and kitchen in search of… something. Company, perhaps, despite the hour, since Dean hasn’t come back.

Both rooms, and the library, are empty. Of course _this_ is the night where the other inhabitants of the Bunker decide to indulge in healthy sleeping habits. Frowning, Castiel drags Charlie and Kevin’s notes on the meters and dials over so he can read them.

He makes it through one page before throwing them down in frustration. He should be better than this, should be able to hunt down Gadreel, force him out of Sam…

Scribbling out a note, Castiel leaves the Bunker before spreading his wings. Hannah is closest, perhaps she will have a better idea of what Gadreel will be planning next.

The old church in Leavenworth is still ablaze with light, despite the hour. It can’t be for the benefit of Hannah’s human parishioners, but he’s not sure why else the church would still be open.

Walking inside is… a wonder. The pews are filled, dozens sitting in prayer while a choir sings in the loft above him. Castiel pauses in front of the votive candles, wondering if it would be sacrilegious to light one for Sam’s safe return.

Hannah takes his arm before he can make up his mind, pulling him away. “Walk with me, Castiel. You’ll upset the balance if you stay here.”

Castiel nods, following along as they head towards Hannah’s office. “You have… done well, with your flock.”

“There was a need. Our family fell and needed vessels. I offered up the faithful of this church.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “You did _what_? Why in our Father’s name--”

“ _Because_ of our Father, Castiel,” Hannah cuts him off. “They were lost, scared. Most had never been to Earth, had no bloodlines prepared for them. They had to find vessels where they could, hope their faith would be strong enough to support an angel. Our people were _dying_. I helped them find a way.”

“You killed them. No matter your intentions, you’ve ripped them away from their wives, husbands, children-- How many, Hannah? How many have you killed?”

“No more than you have,” she says darkly.

“I… I can’t. I came here to ask for your help finding Gadreel and-- I can’t.” He turns to exit, pulling the door open. “This is a perversion.”

“I will always choose angels over humans. Maybe it’s time you remembered that lesson.”

Castiel nods jerkily before leaving, pulling the door closed tight behind him and stalking stiffly to the street outside. Leaning against the stone rampart of the stairs, he closes his eyes and tries to regroup. Hannah, if she was ever going to help, clearly isn’t going to now.

Staring blindly down the street, Castiel tries to figure out what he’s going to do next.

A head edges under his hand, pushing up and rubbing against his leg. Blinking, Castiel looks down to see the black dog from the graveyard sitting next to him, looking up at him hopefully.

The dog barks happily, pushing itself into his hand again before flopping at his feet.

Castiel smiles watching it. “Do you want to come with me? I’m afraid it won’t be very exciting. We’re searching for another angel--”

The dog’s ears perk up and she turns to look at the church.

“Not them, unfortunately. A specific one.” The dog still looks attentive, so he shrugs. “Let’s start at the Falls again. We’ll see if we can’t pick up his trail there.”

He takes off again and he can actually feel the dog following in his wake, an odd, almost imperceptible drag that lands a fraction of a second after him, silent and invisible once again.

The land above the falls is still green and fertile, the blessings of God’s touch not quite hidden beneath the scum of human greed that coats the falls themselves. It’s been… literal eons since he last saw the Garden as it was on Earth and even those gates have shifted over the years. The dog keeps pace with him as he searches for angelic grace, any sign that another angel has been here recently.

Finally, he finds the trace he’s been looking for, grace at what was the Northern Gate. It’s not much, and not fresh-- a couple of months old, probably left from when Gadreel had first taken Sam-- but it’s at least a sign that he’s on the right track.

The dog sniffs at it, rolls around in the grass for a moment, then disappears.

Castiel frowns, sagging against a nearby tree. He hadn’t expected the dog to stay with him, but the possibility… It would be nice to have company sometimes, when he can’t be at the Bunker. She’s gotten bored, or called back to her duties, or something. It’s to be expected somewhat. Black dogs are normally tied to a specific location, that she had been able to travel at all…

Sighing, he looks around briefly thinking about starting to walk back towards the trees that block the falls from view. It’s closer to dawn than midnight, but he still wants to be careful about flight in view of humans. A few might already be out, wanting to watch the sunrise.

But he doesn’t want to leave without the dog.

Castiel settles back against the tree and waits.

* * *

Kevin glares at Cas’s stupid note, scribbled on a page ripped from his and Charlie’s notes on the readings for the stupid meters. ‘ _Searching for Sam, back later.’_ followed by a complicated symbol that’s probably Castiel’s name. Helpful.

Grumbling, he takes a sip of the stone cold coffee at his elbow before leaning back in his chair. If Dean and Cas can’t be bothered to come home…

“Charlie, how do you feel about upgrading this stupid computer?” Kevin yells over his shoulder into the library. “At least get these stupid things to digital?” He thumps the console in front of him with a grunt.

“We’ll need to figure out where the actual computer is, but yeah. We can look into upgrading.” She leans against the arch into the library.

“Don’t suppose you’ve found a map?”

Charlie chuckles and shakes her head. “No Marauder’s Map for this castle.”

“Is there at least a princess at the end?” Kevin sighs and drains his coffee, grimacing. “Guess I’m going spelunking. Yell if you need me.” This would be so much easier if they could find a set of blueprints, instead of relying on hallways that constantly move.

“If you find a princess, let me know. I’ll fight you for her.”

“No way. I know my classic blunders.” Kevin flips her off, following the bundle of wires out of the monitors and down the hall.

“I’m neither Sicilian nor a land war in Asia!” Charlie calls after him.

The computer, when he finds it, is down one of the corridors they’ve not explored thoroughly, in a small room that either started out life as a storage room or became one after the computer was installed. Most of the space is filled with the computer which, for fuck’s stake, looks like it uses transistors, with a few storage shelves.

At least he’s found the damn thing.

The floor in front of the machine is piled high with hundreds of feet of output tape, short phrases written every few inches, so abbreviated that he can’t tell what they’re saying without a lot more time and energy. Leaving the pile alone, Kevin pokes at the back of the machine. It’s blank metal, industrial gray. There doesn’t even look to be screws to get under the hood, let alone anything actually useful!

Great.

Glancing around, Kevin spots a couple binders on the shelves next to the computer, labels long gone. Pulling them off the shelf, he has to juggle them a bit when they’re heavier than he expected, knocking into a few other odds and ends that share the shelf. Nothing breaks at least, so he won’t have broken glass to deal with when he gets back here.

Dragging the binders back to the library, Kevin drops them with a thud on one of the tables. “Manuals in the library,” he calls. “Come and get ‘em.”

“That was quick,” Charlie says, emerging from the map room. “You found it?”

“Dude, it’s all analog. There’s not even a display. It’s all ticker tape printouts.”

“You’re joking.”

Kevin shakes his head. “A freaking parade in there. Probably only stopped because it ran out of paper.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. So I found the manuals and decided that was a thing we would handle first. God knows we’re not going to be able to replace a transistor if one blows while we’re fucking around. Better to know what we’re getting into first.”

Charlie huffs. “You are the only nerd who actually reads the manuals.”

Kevin sticks his tongue out. “I need coffee first. Any idea where you-know-who is?”

“ _Henry_ said something about exploring when I passed him by the bathrooms this morning. Pretty sure he’s off doing his own thing.” She pauses for a moment. “He’s not that bad, really.”

“He’s not, no. Myopic, maybe. But his friends give me the creeps.” Kevin shudders exaggeratedly, starting yet another pot of coffee.

Charlie shrugs, pulls one of the binders towards her. “Okay, ‘User Manual for IBM/MoL Model Alpha, Volume Two,’ tell me everything you know.”

“And I have… Volume Three.” Kevin can’t stop his forehead from hitting the table and groaning. “Shit. There’s a whole other book in there?”

“It wasn’t on the shelf?” Charlie frowns. “Weird. You’d think they’d keep everything together.”

“It might be buried under the freaking ticker tape. Let’s… get as far as we can, and we’ll check it out later.”

If reading modern manuals is boring, reading these is excruciating. _‘All data transfer, mask, and address operations performed between the central processor and the interface of a device…’_ Even trying to read the stupid demon tablet was better than this. That at least only gave him a headache. This is… “Incomprehensible. We’d be better off pressing random buttons and seeing what it does.”

Charlie huffs but doesn’t disagree. “Maybe if we… Yeah. Let’s unearth Volume One and see if that helps.”

A woman is staggering out of the computer room when they round the corner. Charlie pushes him behind her, palming a knife Kevin didn’t even know she had. “Who the hell are you?”

The stranger quirks an eyebrow and holds her hands up. “I’m not here to hurt you. You can put the knife down.”

“Fat chance,” Charlie sneers. “Not until I know who the fuck you are.”

“Alright…” The woman drawls, stepping slowly towards them. “My name is Dorothy Baum, I’m a hunter, working with the Men of Letters?”

“Never heard of you.” Kevin says, easing out from behind Charlie. “And they’ve been gone for over fifty years.”

“What? That can’t be. If they’re gone, and I’m awake, then she must have...”

“Need more words there, Yoda. Can’t tell you jack shit if we don’t know what’s happening.”

“If I’m free, we’re all in terrible danger.”

It takes several cups of coffee, the last one strengthened with a hefty dose of whiskey, before Dorothy pulls herself together enough to actually explain what’s going on. “I captured one of the Wicked Witches of Oz and, after trying everything, was utterly incapable of killing her. I came here to get the eggheads’ help.”

“Oz…” Charlie looks at Dorothy with adoration. “You’re _that_ Dorothy Baum. The one who ran away and escaped to Oz.”

“I stowed away in my father’s luggage while he was packing for a diplomatic mission.”

“Frank Baum… was your father,” Kevin says slowly. “That just… Those books were real?”

“No. They're lies and fabrications, meant to shame the Men of Letters into action.” Dorothy takes a large swig of her coffee, filling it with whiskey. “It was a long time ago. The Witch. What have you done with her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kevin points out. “There was no witch, hell, there was no _you_! There was nothing living and breathing in that room except me and some bugs.”

“You know bugs--”

“I don’t care,” Kevin cuts Charlie off.

“I bound our life forces together. If I’m awake, the Witch is awake and we _must_ find her.”

“Kev--” Charlie pushes herself to her feet. “Get the front door locked down. That’s the only exit right?”

“Only one we’ve seen so far.” Kevin dashes for the door, pulling out his phone as he goes. The call goes straight to voicemail-- but that doesn’t really matter, hell, it might be better. “Dean, there’s a witch in the Bunker. We’re locking the doors. _Don’t_ come in until we’ve given you the all clear.” He doesn’t have much faith in that actually working-- Dean will do what he wants-- but warning is good.

It takes a few seconds to lock the Bunker down, pulling the lever he’s pretty sure will lock the external doors without killing the power and air pumps. Spinning around, Kevin calls, “Okay, door is--”

A stooped old woman waits at the bottom of the stairs, with her tangled gray hair falling over a black cloak. She hisses, glaring up at him. Her fingers twist together, like she’s tying knots of some kind, and then green light shoots towards him.

Kevin dodges it, supporting his weight on the rails and swinging his feet out at her, knocking her away from the stairs. “Guys, she’s in here!”

The Witch hisses and spins around, somehow turning into a black cloud as she does, twisting into the air vents.

Dorothy and Charlie scramble into the room, breathless. “Where’d she go?” Dorothy demands.

“Into the, uh, air vents. I kicked her, yelled for you guys and then she disappeared.”

Dorothy sucks in a breath and nods. “She can do that. Teleportation, mind control, I don’t-- We never found a way to kill her. Everything I did just slid right off.”

Charlie has the look of someone frantically trying to recall as much information as she can in a very short amount of time. “What about--”

“Tried soap and water too. Like I said, the bitter ramblings of an old man.”

“No, _poppies_. Wasn’t that in one of the later books? I could have sworn…”

“I’m pretty sure I saw some essence of poppy in one of the storerooms,” Kevin offers. “Or maybe it was opium. I’m not sure, the entire room was set up for spellwork.”

“That battle was _horrible_ ,” Dorothy says with a shudder. “But the Witch… she wasn’t seen for weeks after that. Our spies brought back that she was very ill.”

“And you didn’t think to try it again?” Charlie rolls her eyes, clapping her hands together. “Alright. That’s the plan. Dorothy, Kevin, you two find the poppy juice. I’m going to see what we can dig up for weapons.”

“Try Dean’s room,” Kevin says wryly. “He probably won’t even notice they’re gone.”

They separate, Charlie running down the bedroom corridor while Kevin and Dorothy sprint towards to storage rooms.

“What does she want?” Kevin asks, a little desperately in the silence. “The Witch, I mean. I’ve got a pretty good grasp of what Charlie wants.”

“There is a Key to Oz somewhere, one that will allow her to return to Oz and subjugate everyone to her will.”

“Don’t suppose you know what this key looks like?” Kevin asks, pushing open the door to the lab. “We’re kinda drowning in random _things_.”

“‘The Great Storehouse of all things magical or mystical,’” Dorothy quotes. “It wasn’t true even when they opened it. No. Ozian bronze, probably?”

“Helpful.” Kevin rolls his eyes and crosses towards the small cabinet in the corner. Searching through it quickly, he finds both liquid essence of poppy and a small jar of opium, half full of yellow-brown resin. “Got it, but not much. Hope Charlie’s got something.”

Dorothy nods, looking out in the hallway. “Let’s go.”

The Witch appears again on their way back to the kitchen, hissing and spinning back into the air vents before Dorothy can do anything. “Fuck. We need to _move_.”

Kevin stares after Dorothy as she sprints down the hallway before he breaks into a run behind her.

They meet Charlie in the kitchen, where she’s gathered a handful of pistols. “It’s all I could grab. We don’t have much time.”

“It’ll be enough.” Dorothy grabs the essence of poppy from Kevin and dumps it in a bowl, followed by a few bullets. There’s barely enough of the oil to coat all four, let alone enough for a full clip for each of them. “Kevin, can you… I don’t know… figure out how to turn that opium into more of this? Or something similar.”

Kevin nods, quickly filling a coffee mug with water and sticking it in the microwave while Dorothy and Charlie divide up the bullets. He throws a few decent sized chunks of the resin into the cup once the water is boiling, stirring it.

“Henry, what the hell? Get in here,” Charlie yells behind him.

Kevin spins around to look. Henry is advancing oddly, stiffly.

“The Witch has him,” Dorothy says sharply, taking aim. “We can’t let her--”

“No!” Kevin yells. “We can’t kill him.”

Henry lurches forward, throwing Dorothy to the side. “The key. Give me the key,” he demands in a monotone, barely sounding like himself.

Kevin grimaces, stirring frantically. The lumps are almost gone. If he can just get them dissolved, he can…

“Sorry dude, don’t have it,” Charlie shoots back. “You can have a fist sandwich though.” She throws herself into the uppercut, snapping Henry’s head back.

Kevin doesn’t think, tossing the opium soup over Henry. He screams, the liquid sizzling against his skin. There’s a tense second before the unnatural green glow fades away from Henry’s eyes and he slumps to the floor unconscious.

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” Dorothy gasps out from where she’s laying next to the fridges. “Where did he come from?”

“It’s… complicated,” Kevin temporizes. “He actually is a Man of Letters… Look, there’s time travel and Knights of Hell and it’s too long of a story for right now.”

“We can include Henry in your ‘Welcome to the Twenty-First century’ briefing,” Charlie says.

Dorothy pushes herself to her feet and nods. “Is there anyone else here that we need to watch for?”

“Sam, Dean, and Cas are… out.” Kevin temporizes. “And there’s no one else here besides Henry. Let’s go find this witch.”

They stick together this time, moving cautiously through the hallways back to the storage rooms. Charlie thinks she remembers seeing something about a Key to Oz somewhere in room 38C, so they head that way, hoping they can get there before the Witch.

They don’t. The room is a ransacked mess, boxes and files scattered across the floor. Kevin finds a carved wooden box lined with velvet, broken open and tossed aside. “I think I found where it _used_ to be.”

“Crap,” Charlie breathes. “Okay, so she’s got the Key. What else does she need?”

Dorothy curses briefly and shakes her head. “Uh… An exterior door. There’s only two-- Charlie, duck!”

Green lightning flashes by, hitting Kevin square in the chest. He reaches up to touch where it hit him before…

Everything

Goes

Blank.

* * *

“You’re sure this is where this hunk of junk is?” Dean sighs as he turns onto an overgrown gravel driveway. The house ahead has seen better days-- the porch is falling off and half-flattened, plus it looks like a brush fire got out of control about twenty yards away from the house-- and he doesn’t see smoke rising from the chimney. “Place looks abandoned.”

“You saw the map same as I did,” Crowley snaps. He looks spooked, glancing around erratically. Crowley’s got his own problems right now, and a raging addiction is one of them.

“Yeah, but I was expecting more Indiana Jones and less Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Dean grimaces as the Impala bounces over a cattle grate. “This is… I don’t even know what this is. I feel like we’re going to get ambushed and dragged into the basement to be Christmas dinner.”

“Someone’s feeling optimistic today.” Crowley frowns at the beehives in the yard, one of them smashed into pieces of white wood. “We’re, probably, not going to die. Well, I’m not. You still might.”

“That’s not reassuring.” Dean rolls his eyes and shifts the car into park. “Excuse me, Mr. Creepy, do you own a super old jawbone? Probably covered in blood? Sure, we’ll sniff this suspicious rag for you.”

“Dean, shut up,” Crowley snaps, his eyes fixed on the hives behind Dean.

Dean spins around. “Who the hell is that?”

“That, you ignorant fucker, is the Father of Murder. Show some goddamn respect.”

“What--”

“Who are you and why are you on my property?” The man demands from a few yards away.

“We need the First Blade. We were directed here,” Crowley practically whispers, all averted eyes and deep respect.

The man-- Cain, Dean guesses-- pulls his hat off. “Who are you?”

“Look, just hand the stupid thing over, we’ll get out of your hair, and we can all get on with our lives.” Dean leans back against the Impala, ignoring the fear sweat that’s starting to bead at the small of his back.

“The Blade isn’t here. You were led to the source of the Blade’s power. Now, _who are you_?” He asks evenly, but there’s a sudden menace behind it. “One of Abaddon’s minions?”

“The demon Crowley and Dean Winchester,” Crowley cuts in. “Nothing to do with Abaddon.”

“Unless you include wanting to end her.”

Cain raises an eyebrow, nodding towards the house. “We have something to talk about then. Come in.”

Cain gestures them towards the heavy Victorian-style couch in the front room once they’re inside. “Have a seat while I prepare tea.” He closes the sliding door between rooms behind him, leaving them in relative privacy.

“Are you kidding me, Crowley? You wanna play nice with this guy? He already said it’s not here,” Dean hisses.

“So maybe he can tell us where it is. Try being polite instead of your normal neanderthal self.”

Dean makes a face, pushing back to his feet and wandering around the room. There’s not a whole lot to look at-- some intricate stained glass in a bee motif, a Civil War era portrait of a severe woman staring out of the oval frame-- but it kills time without requiring him to make small talk with _Crowley_ of all people.

“Here we go,” Cain announces, balancing a tray with one hand while sliding the door closed behind him. Deftly setting the tray on the low table between the settee and armchair, he pours into three cups before passing them to Dean and Crowley. “There’s honey as well, if you would like.”

Dean rolls his eyes, sitting back and watching as Cain and Crowley doctor their tea. The air of menace from Cain hasn’t let up at all, even though he’s trying very hard to appear harmless.

“Now, you came here for the First Blade,” Cain says, holding his cup steady. “As I said, I don’t have it. And it won’t do you any good against Abaddon anyway.”

“I’m willing to take my chances,” Dean says. “We can find another archangel if need be.”

“You can’t, actually,” Cain points out. “There’s only four, and they’re… indisposed, from what I understand.”

Crowley’s teacup abruptly clatters against his saucer, his hands shaking. “Letting Lucifer out in hopes of rescuing Michael--”

“Yeah, no. I got that much, thanks.”

Cain’s menace explodes into full bloom. “Not that it matters. The archangels didn’t kill the knights. I did.” Cain pauses for a moment, takes a sip of tea. “Only a knight can kill another knight, and only one armed with both the First Blade and the Mark.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean starts before he hears the grate of tires on gravel. “Expecting company?”

“You were followed,” Cain says simply. “Or perhaps your companion was. Either way, as they’re after you, I’m going to go start dinner.”

“What?” Dean says, moving to the window and twitching aside the curtain. A fourth truck pulls up and another three demons pile out, bringing the total up to eleven or twelve.

The leader-- medium height, heavy set, buzzed hair and tattoos that Dean suspects are racist as hell-- steps forward, standing right on the line between burned ground and unburned. “Cain, we mean you no harm. Send out Crowley and the Winchester and we will leave you in peace.”

Even Dean can hear the unspoken ‘for now’ that follows the proclamation. If Cain’s the only one who can kill Abaddon, he’s gonna be pretty high on her to do list. “Crowley, can you beam us out of here?”

Crowley shakes his head. “They’ve put up some sort of barrier.”

Dean blows out a breath, glaring at the door Cain’s disappeared behind. Pulling Ruby’s knife from his pocket, he glances over at Crowley. “Any offensive weaponry in that suit? Angel blade, anything?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Right. Ok.” Shucking his jacket, Dean barges into the kitchen, interrupting Cain as he sits at the table peeling potatoes. “Really? You’re just going to--”

“You invited yourself onto my property, Dean. I feel no compulsion to assist you in reaping what you have sown.”

“Of course not.” Dean throws the lock on the back door and starts tugging the old refrigerator in front of the door. He gets it about halfway when he hears the lock click open and a couple of demons push their way into the kitchen.

They’re inside before he can stop them, pushing him back towards the table and spreading out so he can’t cover all of them.

The one on the left-- nearest the door-- steps closer, jabbing a punch towards Dean’s chest. Dean sidesteps it, taking it on his shoulder. It hurts like a bitch, but the demon is now between Dean and his buddy.

Dean buries the knife into the demon’s chest. He takes a fraction of a second to enjoy the light show before pulling the knife out and pushing the dead meatsuit the the side. He glances back at Cain, who’s still sitting at the table, digging spots out of potatoes with a paring knife. “You could help.”

Taking advantage of Dean’s distraction, the other demon tackles him, landing in the narrow space between the table legs and cabinets and knocking the demon knife from his hand. Dean flails, landing a kick in the demon’s midsection, enough to scramble across the floor to the knife.

“I could,” Cain says from above him. “But this is much more entertaining.”

Dean rolls over, launches himself back at the demon. He catches it on the arm, blood flying across the floor, before the demon shakes himself and jumps to his feet. Dean follows, dodging one punch, but catching another in his stomach. His breath punches out of him. “Fuck.”

Breathless, he watches as the door opens far enough to admit another demon before slamming shut again.

The demon in front of him tries to slap the knife out of Dean’s hand. Struggling to draw a breath, Dean tightens his grip and slashes forward with the knife, catching the demon on the arm again.

He jerks back, hissing. Dean presses his momentary advantage and pushes forward, backing the demon into the counter. He grabs the demon’s hair, immobilizing his head so he can cut the demon’s throat.

Jumping over the dead bodies, Dean grabs the collar of the new demon, jerking her off her feet and onto the table, head dangling off the otherside, next to Cain’s elbow.

Cain smirks at them, his arms crossed while he slowly drinks a beer. “ _There’s_ the hunter that demons have been talking about,” he says smugly, approvingly.

“Fuck you,” Dean spits, stabbing the demon in the chest and cutting her throat for good measure. He doesn’t even have time to enjoy the light show before Crowley and another demon crash through the sliding door.

The demon lands on top of Crowley, punching wildly. Dean jumps back as the table lurches towards him, bound up with the dead bodies that litter the floor. Dean flings himself at the grappling pair, tackling the demon off Crowley.

He lands wrong, the point of his shoulder popping up into the demon’s breast bone, sending the knife skittering across the floor. Dean curses as his fingertips tingle and threaten to go numb. The demon takes advantage of his distraction, rolling them and whaling on him. One of Dean’s ribs creaks alarmingly as he tries to buck the demon off.

Groping blindly for the knife and trying to fend off the demon with a hand gone numb-- that shoulder is almost certainly dislocated, shit-- Dean hears the squeak of the backdoor opening again. “Keep door closed,” Dean gasps out, meeting Crowley’s eyes. He doesn’t look concerned about this turn of events at all, which they _will_ be discussing… later.

Forcing his hand to work, Dean pushes the demon away by the throat, enough that he can get enough breathing room to actually grab the knife. Flipping it around, he brings it up to stab the demon only for the point to go skittering along a rib.

He catches a glimpse of Crowley’s legs as he saunters over towards the door, avoiding the blood pooling on the floor.

Dean bucks up, throwing the demon off balance and tightening his grip on the knife. Forcing it between the demon’s ribs, the demon immediately flashes orange and topples forward, pinning Dean to the floor. Pushing it to the side, Dean climbs to his feet, his left arm hanging painfully at his side. “Anyone else?” he demands, looking around wildly.

Cain raises an eyebrow. “I’ve seen what you can do. If you want more however…” he gestures towards the door.

“Seen what I can… This was a fucking _audition_?” Dean bursts out. “What the hell, dude?”

“Yes.” Cain pushes himself to his feet, steps over a dead body, and slides the broken door to the living room open. The living room is a mess-- the coffee table snapped in half, one of the delicate end tables thrown across the room, a couple of dead demons lying on the floor near the door-- but, miraculously, Cain’s teacup still balances, untouched, where he’d set it on the mantle.

“Jesus, dude. There’s better ways of staging an audition if that’s what you wanted.”

“But that would not have been true. This… was. As it is, there are still several demons being kept outside of this house only by my will.” Cain resumes his seat in the armchair, idly stirring his tea, before leaning back. “You want to use the First Blade. That requires the Mark.”

“Says who? What Mark?”

Crowley sighs heavily. “Did the older Winchester teach you _nothing_?”

“Only someone who bears the Mark can use the First Blade.” Cain gestures pointedly towards the settee. “I can give you the Mark, Dean, if that is what you truly want.”

“Of course that’s what I want,” Dean says. “Unless _you_ want to step up and take care of the problem.”

Cain doesn’t even dignify that with a response. It was a cheap shot anyway. “Very well,” Cain says finally, rolling up his sleeve to expose his forearm. “You should know that the Mark comes with a great burden. Some would call it a great cost.”

“Spare me,” Dean spits, pushing up his sleeve. “Let’s get this over with so I can shish-kabob the bitch.”

Cain’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “Good luck, Dean. You’re going to need it.” Reaching out, he grabs Dean’s forearm. Dean clasps his arm in return.

There’s nothing for a heartbeat, then a creepy red _thing_ emerges from an old burn scar on Cain’s arm, tracing down to the place where their arms touch. Dean stiffens when it spiders its way across, burning up his arm to settle just below his elbow. He stifles a gasp, turning it into a grunt.

“Dean?” Crowley asks cautiously after Cain releases him.

“I’m fine,” he grinds out. “Peachy even. Where’s the damn Blade?”

“I couldn’t destroy the Blade, so I threw it into the deepest ocean.” Cain trails off before shaking his head. “Find the Blade, kill Abaddon. But before you go, make me a promise first.”

“A promise of what?” Dean asks, wary of possible traps.

“When the time comes, and I call you-- and I _will_ call you-- you’ll return and use the Blade on me.”

“Why?”

“For the promise I am about to break.” Cain nods, pushing up his other sleeve. “You gentlemen can see yourselves out, I believe?” He waits for Dean’s shaky nod before he disappears.

A few seconds later, the sounds of fighting can be heard. “Time for us to go,” Crowley says dryly. “We didn’t get you that thing just for you to be killed by a random demon.”

Sucking in a deep breath-- his shoulder still hurts, not to mention the bone deep ache from the fancy show with the Mark-- Dean nods and prepares to sprint to the car.


	19. Chapter 19

The black dog catches the scent of Gadreel’s grace and tracks him across a city before it disappears, heading to someplace new. There’s no pattern Castiel can find, and every time Gadreel switches cities, they fall further behind.

Castiel weaves through a narrow alley in the oldest part of Karaj, Dog running ahead of him. A group of children play in the street, kicking a ball between loosely defined teams. Dog barks wildly and the children pause, shivering, before they resume play. One of them though, a boy no more than ten, stares directly at Dog until his friends chide him for not paying attention.

Castiel hesitates before stepping forward. He waits for their game to pause-- or end, he’s not sure which-- before approaching and asking if they’d seen another American recently.

Most of them shake their heads no, intimidated, but one of them, the same one who watched Dog, says he doesn’t know if the man he saw was American, but he wasn’t from Iran.

Castiel nods and passes out a few dollars worth of the local currency in thanks before continuing down the street, trying to plot his next move. Gadreel was here at least, even if they missed him. Confirmation that he’s on the correct trail is almost good enough.

The boy meets him at the next intersection, somehow ahead of Castiel. Frowning, he watches the corner carefully, looking for an ambush. It wouldn’t be the first time asking questions earned the ire of the local criminal element.

Seeing no one paying close attention to pedestrians at the intersection, Castiel stands next to the boy, silently watching the traffic along the road. Several long minutes pass before the boy looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes. The American, he explains, healed Aunty Salma’s bad ankle in exchange for a cup of coffee and the chance to listen to the radio for a while.

The neighborhood is awash in rumors of the angel that visited her, both approving-- Salma’s faith has never been in question-- and disapproving-- mostly from the older neighbors who say that she still shouldn’t have served coffee to a strange man alone. Either way, it’s done and the man is gone.

Castiel listens gravely before nodding and sending the boy back to his friends. Walking along the sidewalk, he can feel eyes on him. Dog slinks back to him, uneasy about something. Castiel nods, subtly petting the dog’s head before taking flight between one step and the next.

* * *

The road back to cell reception from Cain’s house is long, full of twists and turns that Dean doesn’t remember from the drive in. As soon as his phone starts buzzing, Crowley snatches it out of his hand, before Dean can even glance at the screen.

“Eyes on the road, I have no interest in dying today.” Crowley thinks for a couple of seconds before typing in a passcode and pulling up Dean’s missed call list. “Well, well. Someone’s been a busy boy.”

“What the _fuck_ , Crowley!” Dean reaches over and tries to retrieve his phone. “Give it back.” The Impala swerves heading into the sharp curve before Dean yanks her back into the correct lane.

“Keep your bloody eyes on the road!” Crowley snaps, dropping the phone into the foot well. “I’m _trying_ to do you a bloody favor before you kill yourself!”

“Well, don’t.” Dean sighs as they roll through another village too small to have even a gas station, let alone a diner. “I’ll take care of it when we stop.”

“And when will that be?”

“Soon,” Dean says, guiding the car around another curve. “Not that you need to be here. You can jet any time you’d like, your highness.”

“I keep an eye on my investments,” Crowley answers cryptically. “We need to discuss what happens next.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Well, _I_ can’t search the deepest ocean, or whatever the fuck he said. So, I think what happens next is you do… that.” He waves vaguely out the car window. “Then, once we have the Blade, we hunt down Abaddon and end her. Then we go back to our normal lives of hating each other, _hopefully_ with less world ending events. Sound good? Great.”

Crowley frowns, but says nothing. Dean ignores him, running the math between how much gas is in the tank versus how far they have to go. It’s better than thinking about how easily he let himself be manipulated back at Cain’s.

Finally, a town big enough to have more than a stop sign. Dean blows out a breath and pulls in for gas at the regional chain. Running inside, he grabs a coffee and a slice of pizza for himself before sighing and grabbing a second coffee for Crowley.

Thrusting it through the open window into Crowley face, Dean gets the gas started before leaning against the backdoor. “What was your plan then?”

Crowley’s silent, pouting.

Rolling his eyes, Dean shoots Kevin and Charlie a text to let them know he’s on his way back and expects answers about whatever in the fuck mess they’d gotten into before thumbing down to Cas’s missed calls. They’ve barely had time for text messages the past couple of days, let alone in depth conversations. Even the texts have been laggy and stilted with Cas crisscrossing the globe searching for Gadreel and Sam.

Finally, he taps out a message-- _On my way home_ \-- as the pump clicks off. They’re back on the road in less than twenty minutes, Crowley showing no sign of giving up his silent treatment. Rolling his eyes, Dean turns the stereo back up, jamming along with Freddie.

They’ve still got another seven hours in the car. Plenty of time to annoy Crowley into speaking.

* * *

Castiel and Dog are resting in the shade of an old pine tree when the other angels descend. They’ve already visited three corners of the Earth and Castiel needs to rest his weary wings before completing the last flight back to the Bunker, back to Dean. Empty handed.

“Bartholomew would have a word, Castiel,” the flight leader informs him, standing far too close for politeness. “You will accompany us.”

Warily, Castiel climbs to his feet, motioning for Dog to stay where she is. “Forgive me, I do not recognize you?”

“You wouldn’t,” the angel says. “The great Castiel would never recognize someone as far below him as I was.”

Perhaps he’s imagining the sarcasm. “As you’re aware, I lost most of my grace during Abaddon’s incursion. Barely enough remains to fly.” He watches them all carefully. “If I’m going with you, I demand at least the barest of courtesies.”

“Hael. My name.”

“Thank you, sister.” Looking around, he weighs his chances and doesn’t like what he finds. There isn’t a way to escape without the flight dragging him back to Bartholomew and whatever tortures he has devised. Leaning over, he pets Dog a few times, whispering, “Go find Dean. Stay with him.”

She takes off with a short bark, racing away. It’s not a perfect solution, but at least she’ll be safe and Dean will know something is wrong.

Frowning and carefully testing his wings, Castiel nods before following the others to Bartholomew’s base.

Bartholomew stages his operations out of a lavish penthouse in southern Florida. Despite the overworked air conditioners, the air inside is sticky, the humidity wreaking havoc on almost every angel he sees. They can keep their vessels from sweating, from visibly reacting to the heat, but not even grace can compensate for the effects of moisture on human hair.

It’s far from the image of Heavenly perfection Bartholomew is trying to present. Castiel grins.

A minion shows Castiel into the office immediately. Somehow, it is even more grotesquely overdone than the rooms outside. Wood paneling made out of endangered trees, gold and silver mantel ornaments. Nothing about it _surprises_ Castiel, but the sheer greed of it…

It’s obscene.

“Castiel!” Bartholomew greets him jubilantly. “My operatives found you!”

“They did,” Castiel says slowly, looking at the others in the room. “May I ask what required this?”

“We’re looking for a way to go home.” Bartholomew taps a pen against the desk he’s leaning against, staring intently at Castiel. “When we were pushed us out of Heaven, the doors were locked behind us.”

“I fail to see how I can help you. You would be better served to find whoever is responsible for the Fall.”

“You can’t help us,” Bartholomew says flatly. “You… you’re barely an angel anymore, running around with the Winchesters like you’re their lapdog. But you know where they’ve stashed the prophet. And him, we need.”

Castiel scoffs. “And you expect me to just… hand Kevin over to you?”

“Dean Winchester handed Naomi the angel tablet months ago. The prophet reads the tablet, all the angels work to reopen Heaven, and then we’re out of this mudpit, away from the monkeys.”

“No.”

“Do you think this is a _negotiation_ , Castiel? You have already brought too much division to Heaven.”

Castiel thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “We always have a choice, Bartholomew. You had a choice when murdering prisoners, when choosing a vessel on Earth, at every step. Our Father is gone and all the angels have fallen. All we have _left_ is choice.”

Bartholomew’s eyes flash dangerously as he pushes himself up. “Join us, Castiel. Bring us the prophet. Or be prepared for what will happen next.”

“Naomi couldn’t force me to bring her Kevin,” Castiel points out calmly. “And you don’t have nearly her skill.” Snorting, he isn’t entirely certain what comes over him. Sheer exhaustion probably, but spending so much time with Dean isn’t helping. “I’ll never join you.”

Bartholomew stares at him uncomprehending. “What?”

Shaking his head, Castiel prepares to take flight. “Kevin Tran is his own man. The demon tablet will stay hidden, and while I cannot force you to do anything with the angel tablet, I suggest leaving it wherever Naomi hid it.” Taking a deep breath, he nods, as respectfully as he can, and _leaves_.

Several angels try to follow him of course, but his exhaustion works in his favor for once. Dropping out of flight almost immediately, he stumbles along the busy roads, trying to put together an accurate guess for where he is.

His phone rings before he can. “Hello, Dean.”

“Thank fuck. Wanna tell me why Zero just showed up in my backseat?”

“Oh.” Castiel pauses. “I thought… I thought you’d be back at the Bunker already. Your text...”

“I’m about an hour out.”

“My apologies. I…” Castiel sighs, ducking into a narrow alleyway and sliding down the wall. “A group of angels came for me. I asked Dog to find you, so she’d be safe.”

“We’re coming back to that name, just so you know,” Dean says darkly. “Are you alright? Where are you?”

“I turned down their offer. Rather emphatically. I’ll be back to the Bunker as soon as I’m sure they’re not following me.”

“Screw that. Get home as soon as you can. Fuck the angels who think they can get past our warding.”

“It will still take me some time,” Castiel mumbles quietly. “I’m…”

“Are you some place you can hot wire a car? Would that be faster?”

“In the short term, yes. But I’ll will still need to rest.” He can picture the frown spreading across Dean’s face, but can’t come up with anything to make it go away.

“You’re dodging the question. Are you okay?”

“I should be back sometime tomorrow.”

“That doesn’t--” Castiel ends the call, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He’s fine, he’ll be fine, and Dean doesn’t need to worry about him.

As soon as his wings rest, he’ll go back to the Bunker, back to Dean. Rest for another couple of days before resuming the search for Sam. He can make this work, can be useful.

* * *

Gadreel violently shoves himself back into control of Sam’s body, pushing Sam deep into his subconscious. He’s no longer attempting to keep it pleasant for him-- the more he tries, the faster Sam regains control. This is _not_ how this was supposed to go.

The weather-beaten building in front of him has hosted at least one demon recently, but Gadreel can’t be bothered to care. If the past several weeks have taught him nothing else, it’s that almost none of the angels he’s encountered recognize him. Avoiding or killing them draws more attention than just going about his business. A demon will certainly not bother him.

Sighing, he trudges inside, out of the rain.

The bartender pours him a beer without being asked, sliding it across the bar towards an empty seat.

Almost all the seats are empty, actually. There’s a woman at the far end nursing a cocktail of some type, glaring at him. Gadreel frowns, not quite sure what he could have done to offend her already, but settles at the stool behind the beer.

“Haven’t seen you in weeks, Sam. What’s been going on?”

Gadreel’s eyes widen in panic and his control _slips_.

* * *

Sam surges up, using every bit of hoarded energy, spite, anger, everything he has to push Gadreel back. “Donnie, call Dean. Tell him _funky town_. He needs to get here immediately.”

“Sam?” Donnie starts, but he tunes him out. All the Star Wars novels in the world didn’t prepare him for this, for trying to corral an angel without losing control of his own body. Even Lucifer barely prepared him.

“Demon or angel?” Georgia asks, suddenly much closer, laying a hand on his arm. “Which is it?”

“Angel,” Sam gasps out, fighting as Gadreel jerks. “I don’t--”

Georgia bites her lip before nodding. “You keep control of that,” she says. “I’ll keep him here.” She dashes outside.

Sam can hear Donnie frantically babbling on the phone with someone-- hopefully Dean, but he’ll take Charlie or Cas, or hell, Henry, at this point-- as he turns his focus inward.

He’s vaguely aware of Georgia pulling him off his stool and into a chair at one of the tables before he goes back under.

* * *

Sam is screaming, struggling with everything he has to stay on top. Gadreel is able to take control of his-- their-- body for moments, seconds, at a time, but never long enough to escape, never long enough to break through the lock downs surrounding them.

Walls snap into place around him, trapping him away from certain parts of Sam’s internal landscape.

Gadreel panics, his grace reacting without control, breaking past the walls, rushing over Sam’s mind like a tsunami, pushing anything that resembles control away, drowning Sam.

Sam’s mind collapses under the weight of Gadreel’s panic, consciousness fleeing ahead of everything. Gadreel steals control of their body, pushing Sam even further to the outskirts while frantically reordering their senses so he’s not being overwhelmed.

When he finally opens his eyes, the old woman is dashing across the room to scribble something on the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Gadreel starts. “But I cannot allow--”

She slices her hand open with a pocket knife, slapping the hand to the sigil next to her.

Gadreel is jerked to the nearest wall, pressed against it by an invisible hand. No matter how hard he pushes, unleashes his grace, anything, he _can’t move_.

He’s not…

He’s--

“Sorry, Sam,” the woman says, patting his shoulder. “It’s just until Dean gets here.”

* * *

The Impala fishtails wildly into the bar’s gravel parking lot, barely missing Georgia’s Jeep as Dean swings into a parking spot.

“Kevin, give me something,” Dean yells into his phone. “A spell, some whacked out combination of components, I don’t care, _something_.”

“Hold your freaking horses,” Kevin spits out. Dean can hear him frantically flipping pages, Charlie talking in the background. “I’m looking as fast as I can.”

“Look faster!” Dean runs inside, taking stock of the situation. Donnie is sitting, shell shocked, on one of the stools while Georgia is sitting in one of the chairs, with a shotgun leveled at Sam’s back. Sam-- or the angel pretending to be Sam-- is smashed face first against the wall. Blinking wildly, Dean stops dead. “Uh… Hey, Georgia.”

“Evening,” she drawls, lowering the gun and waving slightly. “How ya been?”

“Uh…” Dean pauses, blinks some more, taking in the sigil he can barely see behind Sam’s head and its twin on the opposite wall. “You’re a hunter?”

“Was. Retired, oh, about fifteen years ago. Found a nice out of the way place to call home, quiet. Nothing worth attacking except some cows and corn.” She raises an eyebrow, nods at the phone still in Dean’s hand. “Best figure out how to get your brother back. That trap won’t hold forever.”

“Yeah.” Dean shakes himself slightly, glances over at Donnie-- still shell shocked-- and turns back to his phone. “Please, Kev, tell me you’ve got anything.”

“Sam will need to cast the angel out,” says an unfamiliar voice. “It’s getting through to him that’s hard.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Dean demands, trying to figure out who the hell is in their Bunker now.

“You’re not the only hunter with Men of Letter relatives,” she snaps. “I paid attention, even when it was nonsense.”

“Here!” Kevin says, reading aloud. “This sigil, when drawn properly, will allow one to speak to the vessel of the occupying angel. It must be…” He trails off, muttering under his breath. “Yeah. This should work. I’m texting it to you now. Draw it on Sam somewhere.”

“Thanks, Kev,” Dean breathes out. “Keep at it, in case this doesn’t work.”

“Whatever,” Kevin says. “I await your command.” The call abruptly ends. A few seconds later, it buzzes again, the picture of the sigils coming through.

Dean frowns at the phone briefly before turning back to Sam. The paint of the trap is already flaking off as Gadreel fights it-- they don’t have much time. Pulling a knife from his belt, Dean hurriedly cuts through the fabric of Sam’s shirt, tugging it away from his arm.

Shoving his knife back in his pocket, Dean grabs a pen and glances over the picture again before scribbling them rapidly down Sam’s arm. Frowning, he skims the paragraph above the image again… blah blah blah… what powers it… blood. Fuck. Dropping the pen, he grabs the knife again, slicing across his palm before slapping the bleeding wound across the sigils on Sam’s arm.

“Georgia, how much longer--”

Sam gasps, arching away from the wall, his screams getting louder.

Dean doesn’t know what’s going on, but they don’t have much time. Slapping a hand over Sam’s mouth, Dean braces himself and shoves Sam back against the wall when he tries to push away. “Harvelle’s, Sam. _Listen_. Harvelle’s.”

Sam inhales sharply before nodding once as the meaning penetrates-- stop fighting, he’s missing vital information.

“Okay?” Dean waits a breath before barreling on. “You’ve got an angel in you, Sammy. You need to cast him out. _Revoke consent_.”

Sam’s eyes widen, his breathing growing panicked beneath Dean’s palm.

“Kick it in the ass, Sam. Kick him out.”

Sam shudders, his eyes falling shut. Dean chances a glance at the sigils on Sam’s arm. The blood is already dried and flaking off, the pen starting to fade as well. The spell bought him seconds and Dean isn’t sure it was enough.

The trap symbol flares and dies, burnt out. Dean tenses, pushing Sam firmly to the wall. Swallowing, he glances over his shoulder to look at Donnie and Georgia. “Glove compartment of the ‘pala, there’s an angel blade, looks like silver dagger. Grab it.”

Georgia nods, sliding off her stool and rushing out the door.

A blue-white light explodes out of Sam, pouring past Dean’s palm, out of Sam’s eyes and ears. Dean slams his eyes shut, hoping Donnie has enough sense to do so too.

It feels like it lasts forever, a dying star burning against his eyelids. Dean blinks away the afterimage until he can see again.

Sam’s mouth moves against Dean’s palm, muffled noises barely escaping. His hands, still pressed firmly against the wall, tap repeatedly while his eyes widen.

“Sammy?”

Sam nods, hand still tapping out on the wall.

Dean sags slightly, pulling his hand away from Sam’s mouth so he can breathe. “That you, little brother?”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says weakly, coughing. “It’s me.”

Dean releases Sam, turns him around so they can stumble towards the table a few feet away. Donnie finally shakes himself loose from his shock, hurrying over to pull out a chair for Sam to drop into.

Sam hunches in on himself as soon as he’s down, furtively glancing around the bar, looking for something.

Georgia hurries back in, cool as a cucumber, and hands Dean the unneeded angel blade. “So, we all ourselves again?”

“I think so,” Dean answers, watching Sam.

Sam nods, barely glancing up. “Test me anyway?”

“Sam, you’re--”

“We need to be sure, Dean. Absolutely sure. I don’t-- I can’t risk--” Sam fumbles with something under the edge of the table.

“I can get Cas here or Kevin or…”

“Fine,” Sam whispers. “If you won’t do it, I will.” He swipes a knife across his palm and paints the banishment on the table before Dean can do anything. Slamming his hand down, Sam winces… but doesn’t go anywhere. “Thank God,” Sam mutters, sagging back in his chair.

Dean leans back as well, trying to hide the shaking in his hands.

Donnie brings over a couple of whiskeys, dropping them on the table while Georgia follows with two more glasses and the bottle. Pulling out the other chairs, they watch both Winchesters.

“So… anyone want to tell me what the fuck that was?” Donnie starts.

“Uh, do you want--”

Georgia cuts Dean off. “An angel being expelled from its vessel.”

“An angel,” Donnie says flatly, shooting back his whiskey. “Wings, harp, halo?”

“Not sure about the halo, no harps, but yeah, wings,” Dean says tiredly. “Warriors of God, not guardians. Generally, they’re dicks.”

“And?” Donnie presses.

“And what?” Dean sighs again, taking a sip of his drink and watching Sam slowly slide down in his chair. He should be in a bed, not playing twenty questions.

“If you’re going to be smuggling angels into my bar, am I going to have to worry about God next? Should I be stocking better booze?”

“God left the building eons ago. The King of Hell would probably appreciate it if you had better scotch or margarita mix, but he can fucking deal.” Dean shoots back the whiskey in front of him, pushing another glass towards Sam.

“Dean,” Georgia says kindly, touching his shoulder. “Take Sam home. Donnie and I can have a chat.”

Nodding gratefully, Dean drags Sam upright, wrapping an arm around his waist when he stumbles. “You’ve got my number.”

“Go away,” Georgia smiles, waving him off. “I got it.”

* * *

The horn blasts and Sam jerks awake, groping for something solid, something real.

Dean’s worried face smooths into something else-- calmer, more sure of himself-- when he glances over at Sam, half out of the car already. “Sorry.”

Sam shakes his head, thumb already finding the familiar scar on his hand. “It’s--” He grimaces, clearing his throat. “It’s fine.” He’s not sure how long he slept-- at least long enough to get back to the Bunker from Smith Center-- but if anything, he feels worse for the nap. “I can help carry stuff.”

“Yeah, no.” Dean shakes his head before Sam finishes offering. “Bed. I got my shit.”

Sam frowns-- he knows that tone, that deflection. Dean’s not telling him something, something big. Too exhausted to worry about it, he lets it go. He can prod Dean into telling him later, when he can chase down the evasions.


	20. Chapter 20

When she reappears after her trip to Kansas, Dog smells of stress, lightning and, ever so faintly, of poppy and sandalwood.

Castiel frowns when she beds down beside him under the dubious shelter of a low tree near the beach. The smell is weird, too Ozian to be anywhere near Dean. Sitting up, he pets her until the odd smell is gone.

Watching the sun set across the water, Castiel tries to push his grace towards healing his wings, ignoring the empty ache of his stomach and exhaustion.

Eventually staring at the dark waves transitions to sleep, and Dog shoves her impossibly physical nose in his face shortly before dawn. It takes a moment to drag himself back to wakefulness, patterns of intuition and memory making way for consciousness and the weary drag of reality.

“Are you ready then?” he asks, glancing over at Dog. “This could--” he cuts himself off, frowning.

She barks cheerfully, setting off a chain up and down the beach. The chorus passes through the city, joyfully greeting the new day.

“Let’s go then.” Castiel offers her his hand to sniff-- more as a precaution than out of any real concern-- and tries to stretch his wings. They’re stiff and sore, probably in need of a thorough grooming, but he thinks…

A blink and they’re in the national forest east of Atlanta; a second and they’re somewhere in Tennessee; a third on the outskirts of Tulsa. Castiel takes a break, trying to stretch some of the soreness out before taking flight for the final time.

Today. The final time _today_.

His landing is rough and still several miles from the Bunker. But it’s closer than Florida.

“Cas?” Dean sounds so hopeful it hurts when he answers the phone. “Are you…”

“I--” Castiel swallows, glancing around the barely greening fields. “I’m afraid I need a ride after all.”

“Okay.” Dean sighs, barely audible over the hiss of the connection. “We can work with that. Do you need me to talk you through hotwiring a car?”

“I’m only about ten miles away,” Cas starts. “I think--”

“Shit, dude. That’s all?” Dean breathes out, relief obvious. “Awesome. Turn your GPS on and we’ll come get you.”

It’s not the reassuring rumble of the Impala a few minutes later, but the tinny putt-putt of Charlie’s Gremlin rolling to a stop beside him. “Hey, stranger,” Charlie calls. “Want a ride?”

“Yes, please.” Politely, he does his best to knock the sand from his slacks and coat, watching it rain down onto the pavement.

“Get in, dude. I don’t care about a little sand. She’s seen worse.”

Gratefully, Castiel folds himself into the car, holding the door until Dog can also climb inside, perching invisibly in the backseat. “How is… everything?”

Charlie grins at him, spinning the car around. “The Bunker is in one piece, we killed a Wicked Witch, Dean’s back, Sam’s angel free, and IMightHaveAGirlfriend.”

Castiel blinks, separating the words out before nodding. “Congratulations are in order then. I imagine she has something to do with the Wicked Witch? And the smell of Oz?”

“Yeah, she… You know what, that story needs beer. Or tequila. It can wait.”

Castiel twists around in the seat to look at her closely, narrowing his eyes. There are touches of something like grace on her soul, bruises almost. “Charlie…”

“I’m _fine_ , Cas. Dean already did the growly ‘I’m disappointed in you’ speech.”

“He couldn’t see what I can.”

Dog leans forward as the car slows to a stop in front of the Bunker, licking a solid stripe up the side of Charlie’s face.

“What the… Is there an invisible dog in my car or something?”

“Black dog,” Castiel says simply, sliding out. “Or, former Black Dog. Now she’s just following me around.”

“Why?” Charlie demands. “Or is it some angel thing I wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t know.” Castiel reaches down to pet Dog. “She was lonely, I think. And I could see her, of course.”

“Of course,” Charlie echoes faintly. “Well, Hermione always said the Grimm was a load of nonsense. I should have guessed that she would be right. Padfoot can hang out with me.”

Dog bounds ahead of them both, diving into the shadows of the entrance with glee.

“Welcome home, Cas.” Charlie nudges him towards the door with her shoulder.

The weight of the Bunker’s silence is suffocating. What happened? It’s been minutes since he talked to Dean, what could have possibly--

“Cas…” Dean breathes out as he comes around the corner. He drops the plate with a clatter, rushing over and pulling Castiel into his arms.

“Hello, Dean.” He wraps his arms around Dean, holding him until Dean starts to loosen his hold. “How are you?”

Dean huffs, pressing his head into Castiel’s neck for a split second before straightening back up. “Been better, been worse. I might actually like Henry now.”

Castiel sighs, relaxing. If that’s the important part, they can figure the rest out. “Tell me,” he starts, entangling their fingers. “We can figure it out.”

* * *

Kevin glances up from his place at Sam’s bedside when Dean raps on the door, setting his novel to the side. “Hey, Cas.”

Dean pushes Cas inside, pulling the door mostly closed behind them. “Any change?” he asks quietly.

“He’s calmed down some, reading helps. I think he just needs time.”

Dean sighs and nods, reaching down to tug the blanket straight. “Cas, what do you think?”

Cas frowns, reaching over to touch Sam’s forehead. Sam flinches away before relaxing into the bed. “How long has he been like this?”

“I don’t… We got back here last night and he seemed fine. He was walking and talking anyway, after we got Gadreel out. Then he--” Dean breaks off to scrub a hand through his hair. “He had a nightmare, loud enough to wake me up at... about three, I guess? But he never woke up.”

Cas nods. “Can you get me some coffee, please? I don’t… This will be unpleasant.”

Kevin pushes past Dean before he can say anything. “I got it.”

“Cas, what’s going on?” Dean manages. “This isn’t like the last time he was a vessel.”

“The last time he was a vessel is why he’s reacting this way.” Cas pulls Kevin’s abandoned chair closer to the bed, sitting in it. “His brain has focused on keeping himself intact, away from whoever might be trying to take over.”

“An extended nightmare?” Dean translates. “Fuck.”

Cas nods. “Lucifer’s possession, and before that, Meg’s, scarred him. Gadreel reopened those wounds.”

“Shit,” Dean breathes out, mind already whirling, trying to find a way to fix this. “I didn’t-- This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Cas says sharply. “This is Gadreel’s fault. His cowardice, his fear.”

Dean has his doubts-- he’s the one who went looking for help, after all-- but this isn’t the time to have that argument. Not when Sam is still lying there. “So how do we fix it?”

“I need time.” Cas looks down, fidgeting. “If we break the loop, I can draw Sam back out. Or he’ll come out on his own. But with my current level of grace…”

Dean bites his lip, trying not to explode. Time. Cas just needs time. He’s not refusing to do it, he’s just exhausted, needs to sleep. “What about dream root?” He asks, heading for the door. “Instead of using your grace or whatever.”

“I don’t--” the door cuts Cas off as Dean slams it shut behind him.

The spell room is a mess, components scattered across the work table instead of stacked neatly in their cupboards and shelves. “What the… whatever.” He shakes his head and starts roughly slamming ingredients back into place while searching for the dream root.

“Dean, I don’t know that this will work,” Cas says from the doorway. “You’re just as likely to get trapped with him--”

“So you’ll come get me too.” Dean finally spots the dream root and snatches the jar up. Opening it, he takes a deep sniff-- mustard and dust, close enough-- before fishing out one of the sticks. “Or come with me to begin with. I can’t just _leave_ him, Cas.”

“I’m asking for a few _hours_ , Dean. Not even a day. You were willing to wait this long.”

“Because I didn’t know what was wrong. Now I can do something about it.” Dean pushes past Cas and heads towards the kitchen. “Instead of wringing my hands.”

Filling one of the coffee mugs with water, he sticks it in the microwave to boil while he tries to remember what else he needs. Dream root, a bit of Sam’s hair, and a way to pass out quickly. Shouldn’t be too hard, he’s been up since Sam’s first choked off scream, and even before that, it’s not like he’s been sleeping real well.

The microwave beeps and Dean chucks the whole stick into the mug before heading back towards Sam’s bedroom. Roughly grabbing a couple of hairs, he sprinkles them in before claiming the wooden chair next to the bed. “If we’re not back in a couple of hours, come get us.”

Cas glares silently from the doorway, mouth opening before closing with a snap.

“Cheers,” Dean offers before draining half the mug in a single go. Setting it aside, he slouches back in the chair and crosses his arms, waiting to pass out.

* * *

“Where’d you go, Sammy?” Lucifer demands, stalking across the room. Sam presses his hands against his mouth, willing himself to stay silent and hidden as Lucifer hunts him down. Another voice, muffled by distance, shouts his name. Jerking his head around, Sam watches for someone to enter the room.

“I can _feel_ you, Sam. Why won’t you come play with me?” Lucifer looks right at the closet where Sam’s hiding, stepping forward. “I remember your favorite game, kid. Do you?”

Watching Lucifer tie an intricate knot in a bone he conjures in mid-air, Sam whimpers.

His head snaps up, staring at the closet where Sam’s hidden. “There you are…” Lucifer purrs, dropping the bone on the floor. “Not so safe now, are you Sammy? Without Adam or Michael to stop me, or Castiel to distract me--”

Something calls Sam’s name again.

Pressing himself into the corner of his closet, Sam concentrates, trying to recognize whoever is calling for him. Eventually, the voice fades away before a low drone starts, rising and falling in a comforting cadence that _almost_ drowns out Lucifer’s shouting.

Slowly, he slides down the wall, watching Lucifer through the gaps in the door.

“Sam?” A different voice says quietly. Whiskey over cigarettes. “What’s going on?”

Silently, Sam shifts to better look through the slats of the closet door. A familiar tan trench coat, overshadowed by… something… standing in the center of the room, glancing around.

“Boo!” Lucifer shouts, startling Cas.

Cas flinches away from Lucifer before throwing a punch. His fist passes through Lucifer like nothing. “Oh, Sam,” he mumbles, barely audible over Lucifer’s screaming of some Ladyheart song. “I’ll be back soon.” Turning away from the closet, he disappears into a shower of sparks.

Settling back into his corner, Sam watches the door, watches Lucifer watch him, and tries to wait it out. Whatever is going on…

A bolt of lightning lands next to Lucifer, crystallizing the air. Startled, Lucifer takes a step back, staring at the glass formed out of nothing before shoving it to the ground. The lightning shatters, sending shards of glass/electricity/blood everywhere.

Yelping, Sam jumps to his feet, swatting the larger pieces out of his skin.

Lucifer rips open the closet door, smirking down at Sam. “Hello, Sam.” Grabbing his shirt, he drags Sam out and pushes him towards the center of the room. “We’re going to have so much fun!”

Backing away, Sam trips over a chunk of glass, sprawling backwards across the floor, hands coming up bloody as he tries to catch himself.

Eerily familiar laughter fills the room, giggling from distant corners that sounds like someone and no one. A lit cigarette appears on a low table a few feet away, butts of others piled together in the center, and ash smeared everywhere, mixed with blood and…

Ripping his eyes away from it, Sam looks around frantically for Lucifer, trying to figure out where he’s disappeared. Can’t see any sign of him aside from the infernal laughter mixed with off-tune humming.

“Sam!” echoes down a corridor Sam hasn’t seen before, safe passage back to somewhere. Scrambling to his feet, Sam dashes down it, searching for Dean or Cas.

* * *

Dean’s not sure where he is-- this place kinda looks like the Bunker, but every so often, he’ll turn the corner and Bobby’s spare room will be staring back at him, or the backseat of the Impala.

He’s everywhere and nowhere and can’t find Sam at all.

“Sam!” he bellows, trying, again, to force this place to take him to his brother, to let him move around freely.

And suddenly, Sam’s there, stumbling into Dean’s chest before flinching back.

“Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head, mouthing something that Dean can’t understand, before pushing Dean away and leaning heavily against the wall. “Stop it,” he whispers harshly. “Looking like him isn’t going to help you.”

Frowning, Dean snaps his fingers in Sam’s face, ignoring the instinctual flinch. “Sam. Cut it out. Time to wake up dude.”

“What?”

Taking a deep breath, Dean nods before grabbing Sam’s arm and shaking him. “I’m real. Time to wake up-- this isn’t real, Lucifer is good as dead, and Gadreel is gone.”

Sam blinks at him for several seconds, before focusing on Dean’s face. “Dean?”

“Yeah. I’ve been looking for you for hours, where the hell have you been? Shouldn’t be this easy to get lost in your head.”

Cas suddenly appears at Sam’s shoulder, glaring at them both. “You _both_ need to wake up.”

“What’s going on?” Sam asks blankly, still looking around like he thinks this is a trick. “Why are you in my nightmare?”

“When you expelled Gadreel, you retreated so no one else could take advantage of your weakened state.” Cas huffs, reaching up to hold Sam’s shoulder. “Dean impetuously decided to assist you in waking up.”

“And I did!”

“Three days ago,” Cas snaps before turning back to Sam. “It’s time to wake up, Sam. You are safe, and I know how to ensure you are never possessed again.”

Sam nods, biting his lip. Cas looks real enough, and like he probably knows what he’s talking about. “See you on the flip side then.”

* * *

Dean snaps awake, uncomfortably aware that he’s not where he went to sleep and scrambling for a weapon under his pillow.

“Whoa, Dean. Easy.” Charlie lays a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into the bed.

“Sam?” he asks roughly.

“Cas and Henry are with him. Take a moment, then we’ll go check up on him.”

“I need to know he’s okay.” Dean pushes her hand away and swings his legs off the bed, before pausing. “Wasn’t I--”

“We carried you in here, jackass, because Cas needed to be next to Sam,” Charlie says caustically. “You owe him an apology, b-t-dubs, he’s really fucking pissed.”

Dean’s hand brushes his cheek and it explodes from an almost ignorable dull ache to active pain. “Jesus, what did he do?”

“You couldn’t sleep. Cas punched you.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember him breaking my fucking face.” He prods it carefully, trying to figure out how extensive the damage is.

“Then maybe you’ll remember to actually use some goddamn common sense next time.” Charlie stalks to the door, yanking it open. “Since you’ve been out for three fucking days.”

“Hold up, why am I in trouble?”

“You don’t think there was maybe a different way of handling this? There’s not a one of us, including Sam, that needs you to protect us, Dean. Quit it.” Charlie walks out without saying another word.

Pushing himself to his feet, Dean stumbles down the hallway to Sam’s room, trying to figure out where he screwed up. Cas being pissy, sure. Sam, of course. But he can’t think of anything that deserves this sort of anger from _Charlie_.

Cas is nowhere to be seen when he reaches Sam’s room. Kevin and Henry have pulled chairs into Sam’s room, the three of them comparing books and not even glancing up when Dean pokes his head in. Sam sounds tired, but not exhausted and certainly not like he needs his big brother to come in and protect him.

Frowning, he walks back towards the main living areas, trying to find Charlie or Cas to tell him what’s going on.

He doesn’t find them, but he does find Dorothy-- or at least, that’s what he thinks her name is, introductions when he got back to the Bunker with Sam were brief-- in the library, reading something on Charlie’s tablet. “Are you mad at me too?” he asks, making another pot of coffee.

“Don’t know you well enough to be mad,” she says lightly. “But you sure have upset Charlie.”

“I don’t even know why!” Dean slops the first cup into a mug. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

“Dean,” Dorothy sets down the tablet and looks at him. “I don’t know you and have no need to curry favor. So believe me when I say this: that was a _stupid_ risk and accomplished _nothing_.”

“Waking Sam up was nothing? What was I supposed to do? Wait?”

“Yes,” she answers implacably. “The root you used was over fifty years old-- what if it was no longer effective as planned? Or there had been an emergency and we needed you?” Picking up the tablet again, she raises an eyebrow. “You have people depending on you.”

“Make up your minds. Either I need to protect everyone or I don’t,” he snaps, turning on his heel and marching back out of the library. If everyone is mad at him, for protecting Sammy of all things, he’ll just go elsewhere. Let them find him.

Some dim corner of his mind is aware that he’s behaving like a sulky child, but the rest of him is too hurt to think about it. He abandons his coffee cup in his room, exchanging it for a couple of pistols and his gun cleaning kit before heading deeper into the Bunker, towards the gun range.

An hour of near-mindless practice and cleaning later, he’s still not ready to admit that he screwed up-- he _didn’t_ \-- but hunger is starting to creep in. Sighing, he runs the cloth over the barrel of his pistol, feeling for anything that catches.

The door behind him opens, hinges creaking, before he finishes. “Hey, Cas. Come to yell at me some more?”

“No,” Cas says, pulling the chair next to him out. “Charlie and the others are just--”

“Pissed, yeah, got that. Thanks.”

“--Worried,” Cas finishes.

“Well, they shouldn’t. I’m fine,” Dean snarks. “Better than fine. I feel great. Probably the most sleep I’ve gotten in months.”

Cas stays silent beside him.

“I don’t need you judging me,” Dean snarls. “It worked, didn’t it? I did what I needed to do.”

Cas watches him, head tilted. “Is everything alright? Something seems… off.”

Dean huffs, setting the pistol down beside him and heading for the door. “I’m hungry. Let’s go hunt down some food.”

* * *

Juliet chases after the deer, not _entirely_ oblivious to him, but more interested in hunting than Crowley’s not particularly entertaining tricks. She probably thinks this is beneath his dignity-- as if he has any of that left.

The spell leaves the bowl ringing for a long moment before one of the low level demons manning the general summonings responds. “Uh… Lord Crowley, sir. How can I help you?”

Crowley can hear the unspoken ‘since you’re not dead,’ loud and clear. As if he’s the first demon to fake their own death when faced with a power grab. “Is this secure?”

“Of course, my lord. Communications has been moved to the base of Abimelech’s tower.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow-- apparently Hell has undergone massive restructuring since he left, if Abimelech has a tower instead of his eternal forest-- but continues. “All is well then?”

The demon hesitates, briefly muting the channel before coming back with, “Yes, sir. I mean, the Queen is in a rage, destroying everything outside the towers, and no one knows who rules the Pit, but everything is as well as can be expected.”

He carefully prods the demon into telling him everything, playing to their ego and intelligence and even more carefully not allowing any sign of his growing frustration to pass on to his voice. At last he has everything the demon can tell him and he can end the spell.

Abaddon is distracted, the dukes frightened, and the surviving princes still safely in retirement. If he’s going to make a trip to Hell in search of the First Blade, this is the perfect time to do it.

Whistling for Juliet, he closes his eyes briefly before stepping between Earth and Hell. It only takes a moment to transition, coming out on top of what was his office when he was only King of the Crossroads and is now a barren cliff, pockmarked with holes and pits, leading who knows where.

It was never a particularly beautiful view-- nowhere in Hell is, unless you go for horror movie chic-- but it was better than what it is now. _His_ crossroads, the ones that lead to interesting places, are gone, burned and annihilated under Abaddon’s reign. All that is left is an abandoned mesa without even a road across it.

Crowley grimaces and slowly heads towards the edge, Juliet following him closely.

Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Once he dislodges Barthamus-- the fucking little toad-- he can reclaim the Crossroads as a foothold and from there, as much of Hell as he wants (if he wants...) once Abaddon is gone.

That distracting bit of thought follows him as he picks his way down the near sheer cliff edge. Regaining the Crossroads would be acceptable, but if he can find a way to manipulate the old inheritance clauses…

Dean Winchester, Knight of Hell, Master of the Pit, consort to the King has a nice ring to it. And the packaging… well, Crowley wouldn’t turn him out of bed for eating crackers.

Quickly, he pushes that train of thought away. Too ambitious for where he is right now, too many steps into the unknown.

He forces himself to think of nothing but the next step in front of him, occasionally checking behind him for Juliet. Meticulously, he crosses the plain, watching for anything moving besides the two of them, especially anything from the skies.

It takes months to hunt down all the hiding places and check them all for any sign of the First Blade. He barely sees other demons at all, only a few and at great distance, scrambling across the surface between the great towers.

Crowley is knee deep in yet another treasure trove, full of near useless trinkets with just enough power to make it worth searching, when the ground trembles outside. He pockets the item he’s inspecting-- the amulet is pointless against another demon, but there any number of collectors on Earth who would love something that predates the modern hand of glory-- and turns to check out the disruption.

Juliet growls quietly, backing into the narrow cave mouth.

“Little pig, little pig, let me in, let me in,” calls a voice from just outside the cave. “Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.”

Crowley silently pushes Juliet behind him as the demon blocks the exit.

“You’re not going to say anything, Crowley? Not even to refuse me entry?”

“You’re not exactly a shrinking violet,” he points out.

“You, however, are exactly the fat little piggy hiding in a house of straw.”

Crowley looks, incredulously, at the solid walls on either side of him, only slightly further apart than his arms outstretched. “You’re… going to blow down a cave?”

“I don’t have to. I can just chase you out,” the demon snarls. There’s a sharp snap followed by rock grinding against rock, and cracks shoot along the walls past Crowley. “I have been looking forward to this for a long time.”

There’s an ominous pause and then a crash behind him, deep in the cave. It reverberates forward through the stone, shelves collapsing forward, turning the delicate items into dust. Another rock falls, closer this time. She’s not going to give him an option-- eventually it will be emerge or be trapped and crushed.

Crowley waits as long as he can, barely moving forward with each new fall.

“Aren’t you going to come out, Crowley? I’ve got all sorts of ideas for games we can play together.”

That cements it. “Meg, my favorite piece of demon trash.”

“There it is,” she says. He can hear the smirk in her voice. “Shall we start then?”

Juliet rushes out ahead of him, curving away from Meg. Crowley starts after her but stops dead when she yelps and drops to the ground.

Meg pulls another knife from her belt and lets fly at where Crowley is only half hidden by an outcropping of rock. “Going to give up now that I’ve gotten your guard dog?” Meg asks over the clatter of the knife against rock.

Crowley frowns before stepping back around the outcropping to face Meg properly. “What do you want, Meg?”

“A lot of things, but I’ll settle for your head on a spike.” She raises a hand, twisting it slightly. The ring on her finger distracts him for a moment-- he’s seen it before, _somewhere--_ and then he’s even more distracted by his shattered kneecap.

Collapsing to the ground, he glares up at her. “You’re going to have to get your hands dirty, my dear. Whatever your toy can do, it’s not going to kill me by breaking _bones_.”

Meg stalks over, threads her fingers into his hair and yanks his head back. “Bones are the least of your worries.”

Crowley goes easily, allows her to pull him to his feet by her grip in his hair. Slumping to one side, he waits for the right moment.

Juliet barks from where she’s lying in the dust a few feet away. Meg jerks, twisting to look at her.

In a single motion, Crowley reaches up to grab her wrist with one hand while the other snatches his angel blade out of his pocket and cuts her hand off.

Meg screams and teleports somewhere very far away.

Crowley forces himself to stand and limps over to Juliet. Somehow, he never expected to be--

Juliet climbs to her feet, barking happily, not a scratch on her.

“What?” Juliet leans into him, nosing at his knee, and whining. “How did-- Did you fake that?” He sounds like a moron, even to himself. Clearly she did, unless she’s healed faster than demonically possible.

He’s not so lucky, but he survived. Right now, any encounter with another demon he survives is a win.

It only takes a moment to retreat to Earth and hole up in a mid-rate hotel in a decently sized city. He spends the first couple of days waiting for his knee to reassemble itself, but after that, he dives into researching possibilities.

(And, perhaps, a few pints of blood, but what can’t be traced back to him scarcely counts.)


	21. Chapter 21

Dean spent three days trying to drag Sam out of his nightmares and back to the real world and Crowley didn’t call.

Cas pronounces Sam clear of all traces of Gadreel-- which seems almost meaningless, but what does Dean know-- and Crowley doesn’t call.

He and Charlie go on a salt and burn that takes four days too long and Crowley doesn’t call.

Cas shouts something about following the angels and figuring out a way to get them back to Heaven before storming out of the Bunker and Crowley doesn’t call. (And Cas doesn’t come back.)

Dean’s entire life devolves into an endless cycle of back to back hunts with Sam and sometimes Charlie-- entirely ghosts-- with the occasional run back to the Bunker for laundry. Charlie and Dorothy take off for Oz and Henry and Kevin pick up the slack in research between helping hunters out. _And Crowley doesn’t call._

His dreams, when he can sleep, are increasingly fucked up, anger and violence spilling out and soaking everything in red. After a few weeks, finding the Blade starts to lose its urgency. Abaddon is nowhere to be found and the entire thing with Cain takes on the slightly unreal feel of a fever dream.

Except for the irritated burn scar on his arm that only seems to let up when he burns a ghost. That is distinctly real.

“Dean!” Sam shouts across the motel room. “Jesus. Diner for dinner or take out?” He taps his phone angrily on the desk-- like he’s been trying to get Dean’s attention for a while.

Dean glances at the clock, wondering where the last hour went. “We took care of the ghost, right? Let’s just head home.” It’s not like tuning Sam out is anything new-- they’ve spent most of their lives sharing the same room.

“Dude, what is _with_ you? It’s late and we’ve already paid for the room for another night.” Sam rolls his eyes. “You’ve been distracted as hell for weeks now.”

“Nothing. It’s fine.” Dean shakes his head, dragging his focus back to the here and now. “Hamburgers sound good.”

Sam snorts. “When do you _not_ want a hamburger?”

Dean frowns and lets autopilot take over the well worn argument. They’ve had this discussion hundreds, thousands of times. It doesn’t actually need his attention.

Sam tries again after they sit down at the diner. Poking and prodding to see if Dean will admit whatever is bothering him. “Seriously, dude. What’s going on? You’re downright spacey-- you got caught flat footed by that ghost last night!”

Dean shifts awkwardly, the bruise on his shoulder still blooming. “It’s nothing, Sam.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been off since Gadreel. You’re hiding something. Did I do something when he--”

“No!” Dean barks out. “ _You_ did nothing. Everything he did is on him, and me.” Self-consciously, he tugs his sleeve down, double checking that the Mark is covered.

“Dean--” Sam reaches over, tries to grab his sleeve.

Dean jerks away, muttering “Drop it, Sam,” and smiling up at the waitress as she approaches to take their order.

He orders a cheeseburger and onion rings-- the only things he’ll be able to choke down-- and leans back while their waitress flirts with Sam. Looking out the window, he watches the town go about its business, safe from… whatever ghost this was, he doesn’t even remember. That should probably concern him.

Swallowing roughly, he checks his phone, again, for a text or missed call.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Sam demands, snatching Dean’s phone out of his hand and opening it. He scrolls through before glaring at Dean. “There’s nothing here.”

“Thanks, Sherlock. I know,” Dean snaps, grabbing his phone back and shoving it back in his pocket.

“Who are you waiting for? It’s not Cas or me.”

“None of your damn business.”

Sam scowls. “You don’t have any friends, Dean. If it’s not me, Cas, or Kevin, I don’t know who else would be calling you. Certainly no one you’d be this anxious about. You might as well tell me.”

“Uh, no.” Gratefully accepting his plate from their waitress, he avoids Sam’s glare. “Leave it.”

Sam huffs, picking up his fork and jabbing it angrily into his salad. “If this is you hiding something because you think I can’t handle it--”

“It has nothing to do with you, Sam,” Dean bites out. “Eat your salad.” Hunching over his plate, he steadily and silently eats his burger and about half his onion rings.

Their waitress comes back by every few minutes, not at all put off by the oppressive silence at their table, flirting with Sam and eventually prying a grin out of him.

Dean watches them, briefly wishing Cas was here before shaking his head.

She finally notices him when he’s done, pushing the plate away. “Oh, sorry! Did you want any dessert?” Gesturing over her shoulder with her pen, she continues, “We’ve got pie or brownies, or milkshakes, if that’s your thing.”

Dredging up a smile, Dean shakes his head. “I’m good. But you keep my brother occupied, alright?” Sliding out of the booth, he shrugs his jacket back on. “I’m gonna go back to the room. Have fun.”

She grins at him brightly before turning to wink at Sam.

Sitting on the bench outside their room, Dean lets his thumb hover over Cas’s number before switching out of his contacts and pulling up the search function. He and Cas are already crumbling under the weight of everything that’s going on. He doesn’t need to call and add more weight to it. And that’s assuming Cas even picks up-- he hasn’t since he stormed out of the Bunker.

A text from Sam, ‘ _Don’t wait up._ ’

Dean scoffs and glances down the street to where the neon signs of the diner blink cheerfully in the twilight. Swallowing, he sends back a thumbs up before pulling the search function back up.

“Mark of Cain.”

Most of the results are conspiracy theories-- RFID tags are the mark of the beast!-- or various sects of Christianity trying to convince him of the literal truth of the Bible-- yeah, thanks. Got that memo-- but a few he marks for later before shaking his head and heading inside to grab a beer and the laptop.

There’s better shit for him to be looking for than wasting his time running down conspiracies.

After weeks of silence, the first few searches are automatic: John Does matching Crowley’s description-- none; angel kills-- plenty, but fewer than when they first fell; demonic anything-- what looks like a low level possession in Louisiana. Dean calls Pierce about the demon so he can earn his ‘title’ before settling in further, his leg bouncing against the bench seat.

His phone rings on the bench next to him, startling him before he can get any further. “Hello.”

“Squirrel!”

“ _Finally_. Any progress on the First Blade?” Dean holds back the sigh that wants to come out. He knows Crowley will never actually say anything, but hope springs eternal or some such horseshit. “It’s been nearly three weeks!”

“Well… yes. And no. I did find any number of useful--”

“Crowley, if it’s not the First Blade, _I don’t care_.”

Crowley huffs. “It’s not in Hell.”

“Get to the point, Boris.” Dean rolls his eyes, settling back against the bench and watching the road in front of the motel.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to search the deepest ocean? Humanity created submarines for a reason! And it’s not like I have legions of demons at my beck and call anymore.”

Irritated, Dean sighs and doesn’t bother to hide it. “So you have no idea where it is, other than ‘not in Hell.’ Which wasn’t even on the list of suspected places _anyway_.”

“I didn’t say that.” Crowley pauses for effect. “An archaeological team dug it out of a shipwreck thirty years ago.”

“And? Did you get any further than that?” Dead silence. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. Send me what you have. Not like I’m getting anything else done tonight.”

“I thought Halo or Moose would be keeping you company.”

“They’re busy,” Dean bites out. He can hear the smug sarcasm coming off Crowley even without him saying a word. Dean hangs up.

At least now he has something to do with the rest of his evening.

* * *

The woman behind the counter babbles something about Saturday night movies when Abaddon walks into the shop before shaking herself. “I’m sorry, what do you need?”

“Information.” Stepping forward, Abaddon drags the clerk half over the counter, pushing part of her true form into her.

She doesn’t know much of any use, but she does remember a young man in here over the winter, asking questions. His companions didn’t make time to talk to her, but…

Abaddon recognizes him from the barn several months ago. Dean Winchester and, in the background, Henry. Lovely.

Pushing the clerk away, Abaddon glances down at her bloody and torn dress. She doesn’t particularly care about the aesthetics of her meatsuit, although she recognizes Josie was a reasonably attractive woman, but this silver dress has more than served its purpose.

Abaddon’s lips curl into a grin. Pushing just a little bit of her power into her voice, she says, “I think we should trade clothes.”

Blankly, the woman nods and starts to strip. Abaddon waits until she’s done, the clothes piled in a crumpled heap on the counter, before she ditches her old dress.

Smoothing her hands down the clever shirt and tight pants, Abaddon smiles again before releasing the locusts living under her skin. They swarm by the thousands, eating-- they strip the clerk to bone in seconds-- before flying out of the store. Abaddon follows slowly, watching as the old Men of Letters chapterhouse goes up in flames behind her.

* * *

“Castiel.” Ishim pulls a chair away from the table and sits, glancing around the diner curiously. “I was beginning to wonder if you had survived being severed after all. It’s been months since anyone has seen you.”

“Bartholomew captured me less than a month ago, Ishim. If he did not share that news, that is scarcely my concern.” Picking up his coffee, he watches Ishim over the rim.

“You think our flight would follow that criminal? For shame, Castiel.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, long enough for a server to drop off a cup of coffee for Ishim and for him to fix it to his liking. “Why did you contact me?”

“Ishim, angels are dissolving into civil war. You have always been a great leader. Step up, calm the infighting. Those who believe in free will must--”

Ishim snorts, chuckling bitterly. “You think I believe in free will, Castiel? Humans are a _weakness_ , one we would be better served to eliminate.”

“So you would do as Lucifer did? Destroy all of humanity?”

“Not _all_ of them.”

Frowning, Castiel stares at Ishim. “You didn’t feel that way once.”

“I cut out my unfortunate attachment to humanity long ago. You should do the same if you wish to survive.”

“What does that mean?”

“The Winchesters? They aren’t your friends, Castiel. They’re mud monkeys who think that because they were important once, they’ll continue to be important. They caused the Fall-- no angel will trust you as long as you’re with them.”

“No, they--” he starts to protest.

“Come now, Castiel. Sam Winchester had something to do with it, messing around with something he couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Sam was in a coma during the initial battle with Abaddon.”

“Dean then. Destroying everything to get his way,” Ishim says scornfully, waving his hand. “In any case, it’s known they are responsible for the Fall.”

“I can assure you, the Winchesters had nothing to do with the Fall.” Castiel bites his lip. “What of Metatron-- has anyone seen him since? Naomi was quite pleased that he turned himself in.”

“Who cares, Castiel? Naomi is dead and anything you claim worthless.” Ishim drains his coffee, pushing away from the table. “Out of respect for our history, I won’t alert the more… militant factions to your whereabouts; however, you should be more careful.”

Swallowing roughly, Castiel nods. “Thank you, Ishim.”

Ishim takes flight before he reaches the door, disappearing in the middle of a crowded diner. Castiel winces and tucks a few bills under his coffee cup and slips out the door, trying his hardest to avoid drawing any additional attention.

He heads down the street, deep in thought and trying to put together what he knows about the Fall and what could have caused it.

With Naomi dead… he grimaces. Naomi being dead explains Bartholomew’s leadership, but not what happened to her or if it’s related to the Fall or Metatron.

Briefly, he wishes he could call Dean and talk this through-- Dean always has much better insights than he does-- but there’s a strange misplaced urgency surrounding Dean lately. He won’t allow Castiel close enough to examine him, but… something is off.

* * *

“What?” Dean snaps when his phone rings for the third time in fifteen minutes, not even bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Please tell me you’re not answering the phone like that when a witness calls,” Henry says urgently. “It’s unacceptable, but forgivable when you’re talking to your family. Talking to strangers? To someone relying on you to ease their suffering? Absolutely not.”

Gritting his teeth, Dean reaches up to rub his temples, the headache he’s been fighting returning full force. “When I’ve had three calls in fifteen minutes, I’ll answer however I damn want. _What do you want?_ ”

“Kevin and I agreed that you would probably be interested in a hunt not from the Civil War.”

“I’m interested in a hunt that’s not yet another freakin’ ghost. Don’t suppose you found a vampire or rogue werewolf or something.”

“Unfortunately, no. The only non-ghost problem we’ve seen has been a troupe of pixies in northern Washington.”

Dean does the math in his head. “How northern are we talking?”

“Nearly to the border, and on the desert side.” Henry pauses. “We asked your friend Garth to take care of it.”

“So why are you calling me? If you don’t have something interesting--”

“I do.”

“Stop dragging it out and just tell me already,” Dean snaps, flipping his notes closed. “What is it-- the ghost of a vampire or something?” Pausing for a moment, he tilts his head. “Actually, that would be pretty cool.”

“I wonder how a vampire could avoid Purgatory long enough to become a ghost…” Henry mutters. Dean can hear a pencil scratching on paper for a few seconds. “To the point, however. A small town in central Indiana has had six flu related deaths in the last few weeks.”

Dean looks out the open window at the late spring greenery visible in the parking lot lights. “In _May_?”

“Mid to late April, but yes. And, near as we have been able to determine, all of the affected had received their vaccinations.”

Dean grimaces at the reminder. “Get Kevin to figure out what you need to be up to date-- flu isn’t a biggie, but fuck, measles and tetneus at least…”

“Dean.”

“Right. Flu deaths in April, which you’re telling me are not a freaking shtriga or something, but _ghosts_.”

“Five of the victims are young adults, generally military age, whose homes have been in their families for several generations. The sixth was older, but the same in every other respect.”

Dean sighs. “Send me what you’ve found so far, Sam and I’ll head over in the morning.”

“Not tonight?”

“It’s late, Sam’s out, and I don’t really expect him back until morning.”

There’s an awkward pause while Henry does the math before going, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“In that case, I’ll leave you to your evening and will forward the information to you.”

Dean swallows, nodding even though Henry can’t see him. “We’ll keep you up to date.”

Henry fumbles his way off the phone, leaving Dean in blessed silence. Starting to reach for the computer, his arm falls limply to the table as he loses motivation. Another ghost hunt in another small town. Another lost chance to see Cas or find the stupid First Blade and actually _accomplish_ something.

The whiskey burns as he drinks it, ignoring that he doesn’t remember grabbing it. _Almost_ a distraction from the ache of the Mark or how badly he wants to just go home and hide away with Cas for a while, away from the ghosts and angels and Hell and--

Snorting, he throws the lock on the door and slouches towards his bed, double checking that both his pistol and knife are hidden underneath his pillow. No matter how badly he wants it, he’ll never be allowed so there’s no point in wishing.

* * *

“Bartholomew has the numbers, Castiel. No group can hope to stand against him if he decides that they’re in his way.” Muriel glances fearfully at the door. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you-- Bartholomew, Malachi… most of the factions have declared you anathema. Maybe a few of the smaller ones would accept being associated with you, the ones who still believe in what you tried to teach us, but most of them?” She pauses again, shakes her head. “Even if the rank and file angels had sympathy, the leaders don’t.”

“Hannah--”

Muriel snorts. “Hannah and her band of misfits.”

Castiel sighs heavily. “So no one will stand against him? He’s abusing the trust his vessel placed in him!”

“You say that like he didn’t deliberately pick a man who always used his position to rule over others. Like calls to like.”

Out of nowhere, the background hum of Dean’s longing peaks, stabbing at Castiel before it fades again. He frowns, wanting to reach out to sooth Dean, but he’s miles away and he needs to figure out what to do with the angels before something else goes wrong.

“Castiel?”

“It’s none of your concern.” He shakes his head, settling back into his chair in the tiny motel room. “None of the others have known what caused the Fall. Have you heard anything?”

Muriel looks surprised. “It was Ambriel,” she says quietly. “I think, anyway. We were friends, before the Fall. She was stationed on Earth a few days before. I’m not sure what happened-- she hasn’t contacted me since, but she was searching for something.”

“Something,” Castiel says flatly and taps his finger against the table top. “She didn’t say what?”

“She couldn’t talk about it, orders from Naomi.”

“Aren’t infallible.”

“Maybe, if you’re the Great Castiel,” Muriel points out hotly. “She was in our heads, Castiel. _All of them._ How do you know she hasn’t changed everything about you? Is Ambriel really Ambriel, or have we all been reprogrammed to think so?” Her voice breaks and she pushes to her feet, staring determinedly out the window. “You have an anchor, a human to show you the ropes, and centuries of experience in rebellion. The rest of us?”

Castiel nods, watching the table in front of him. “You’re right. My apologies.” He pauses before meeting her reflection’s eyes. “Centuries?”

“You have no idea how much she forced you to forget. Egypt and Dean were only the big ones.”

His heart misses a beat before speeding up out of control, racing for no apparent reason while his mind goes blank. “I don’t--”

Muriel must see something in his eyes, because she carefully picks up her jacket and hat from where she had laid them across the TV and backs out of the room. “Don’t contact me again.”

He stares after her until she pulls the door closed, trying to wrap his head around everything and slow his heart rate. He’d known Naomi had messed with his memory, had reset him time and time again, but somehow…

Somehow it’s worse if all of Heaven knew and never told him.

Reaching for his phone, he wants to call Dean, hear his voice and reassurance, but he pauses.

Dean’s hiding something, something big, something casting a shadow on his soul. Castiel isn’t sure he even wants to know what is causing it. Related to Abaddon, obviously, but nothing beyond that. Whatever it is, Castiel hates it.

Biting his lip, he forces himself to breathe deeply and evenly, some calming technique recommended by the early morning exercise shows. Supposedly, it will help with reaching a calm center before heading into the workplace. He doesn’t have a job, but maybe it will help him avoid calling Dean in the middle of the night, just to hear his voice.

* * *

The sun is already edging over the horizon when Sam shuffles back into their motel room, rumpled and sheepishly dropping a paper sack-- smelling of bacon and grease-- on the table between the beds. He beelines for the shower without saying a word to Dean, sitting on the bed and watching the news.

Dean grunts, grabbing a breakfast burrito from the bag and taking a deep drink of his coffee to force himself into silence.

Bitching at Sam won’t do a damn thing. They’ve not had even an implicit curfew since Sam started hunting again, as long as they weren’t on the job. Dean could have found him, dragged him back to the room, forced Sam to wake up at the asscrack of dawn so they could get on the road...

“Jesus,” Sam sputters, coming out of the bathroom in only his boxers. “That’s not from the ghost, is it?”

“What?”

“Your arm. I can see the blood from here.”

Glancing down, Dean watches blood well up from scratches surrounding the Mark, slowly trickling down to stain his jeans. He jerks his sleeve down, hiding it from view. “It wasn’t the ghost.”

Sam frowns, his giant forehead knitting together. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Dean snaps, dropping the foil from his burrito-- he has no recollection of eating it-- back into the bag and standing. “Get dressed, the brainiacs found us another case. You can sleep in the car.”

“Sure,” Sam says slowly, dragging his bag towards him and pulling out clean clothes while Dean heads towards the tiny bathroom to wash the blood off. “How are you on laundry? I’m just about out-- wasn’t expecting us to be gone this long.”

“Who cares? It’s all ghosts all the time-- they don’t care if your jeans are muddy.”

“No, but the locals might care if the Fed’s suit has blood on it.” Sam pauses for a long moment before continuing. “I’ll load the car and get us checked out. Get your arm fixed up and we can get on the road.”

Dean grunts again, pushing down the anger and irritation trying to flare up. There’s no reason for him to be this pissed off, he’s not even hungover!

Cleaning the scratches-- blood dried under his nails-- he tries to figure out what’s different about the Mark with limited success. It’s redder, he thinks, and raised to the touch, but it’s irritated right now with the scratching. He just needs to keep it clean and stop scratching it.

Which will be easier said than done, but whatever.

Slapping a piece of duct tape over the worst of the scratches and the Mark, he cleans up his mess and heads out to the car.

* * *

The Mark burns and itches-- even under the duct tape-- the entire way to Indiana. He catches Sam watching him as he drives, pretending he’s looking at something else whenever Dean catches his eye.

“You’re gonna have to tell me what’s going on eventually,” Sam points out finally, staring out the windshield.

“Yeah, well, it’s none of your business.”

“You acting like this? Pretty sure it is. Tell me you didn’t make another demon deal.”

“I didn’t make another demon deal,” Dean parrots back, catching himself before he reaches for the Mark again. “Abaddon--”

“What about Abaddon?”

“She’s not a run of the mill demon and stopping her is going to be a pain in the ass.” Dean swallows as the burning intensifies. The Mark does not like him talking about this, great. “The lore says only the First Blade can kill her.”

“Which means you’re an itchy dick, why?” Sam wrinkles his nose. “You didn’t give Cas the clap, did you? Do we need to get to a clinic?”

“ _No!_ What the fuck, Sam?”

“Then sack up and _tell me_!”

“Crowley and I found what we thought was a lead on the Blade in Dad’s journal. Ran it down, since I couldn’t do anything to find you and sitting around waiting…”

“Yeah, that’s never your style.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “So the lead ended up being Cain and then I fought some demons and now I’m bearing his Mark so when Crowley finally finds the Blade, I can use it,” he blurts out in a rush.

Sam is silent, his face completely smooth.

“Say something.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m trying to figure out if this is another fucking protracted suicide attempt or if you really are this fucking stupid.”

Dean growls, his hand tightening on the steering wheel until the leather squeaks.

“Stupid then. Good to know. Does Cas know that you’re trusting _Crowley_?”

“He knows about Abaddon,” Dean snaps. “He’s been busy with other shit.”

“So no. I can’t fucking--” Sam cuts himself off, lips thin and looking out the window. “So you got the Mark and Crowley’s searching for the First Blade. Anything else?”

“No.”

They sit in stony silence the rest of the drive into town. Changing into their suits at a gas station a few miles away, they walk into the regional hospital just a little past lunch, still barely speaking to each other.

Splitting up quickly, Sam goes with the doctors to get the sub-typing records while Dean chats with the current patients and gets a list of the deceased next of kin. It’s not perfect-- Dean has precisely zero interest in talking to anyone still sick-- but he does his job. Because someone’s got to and fuck if anyone else is going to show up.

Eric Fraiser is on the mend, responding well to treatment according to his records, and their first real lead.

“We’re trying to understand why your town has been so hard hit this late in the season, Mr. Fraiser,” Dean says, glancing at the IV. “This is way off pattern.”

“You’re telling me,” Eric coughs, following Dean’s look. “I even got my flu jab this year-- boss had the county health office come in so he wouldn’t have to pay for sick time. It must have worked, I’m the only one who got sick.”

“Did you travel anywhere recently, for business or vacation, maybe? Go digging through the family storage shed?”

“No, nothing like that.” He looks up sharply at Dean. “You don’t actually think I picked this shit up from an old box of pictures, do you?”

“I don’t know. But anything might help us out. Did you go through some photos, diaries maybe?”

“My daughter--” he coughs, groans, and reaches for his cup of water. “Ugh, fuck this shit. Anyway. They’re working on a World War One unit in history and she wanted to see the pictures from great-great-grandpa. So we dragged out the photo album Mom put together and looked through it.”

“And it included pictures of him?” Dean asks, not liking the math he’s coming up with. “How soon after did you get sick?”

“A couple hours?” Eric shrugs. “I saw-- hallucinated-- Grandpa Mike in the living room right before I went to bed. I must have already been running a pretty high fever for that to happen, right?”

Dean agrees, trying to look like he knows what he’s talking about. “How did your grandfather die?”

Eric shrugs. “Great-grandma remarried sometime in the mid-Twenties, so must have been pretty soon after he got home from the war, but I don’t know off hand. My sister might know, but I don’t know how it could be relevant?”

“You’d be surprised about what can survive and for how long,” Dean says soothingly. “I think that’s everything I need from you. If I have any other questions, I’ll be back.”

Eric nods, coughing again.

Dean beelines for a hand washing station and scrubs his hands. He’s already had one go round with fucking ghost sickness, he doesn’t need another one.

The library is across the street from the hospital. Dean loses himself in the records, searching out the local deaths from the 1918 epidemic and matching up the deaths, illnesses, and family trees. It’s not quite one to one, but there’s enough overlap to convince him that he’s right.

Grade school project-- everyone’s pulling out the family photo albums at the same time-- plus whatever is going on with the veil… awesome. They’re lucky this isn’t happening world wide.

Armed with a list of graves, Dean shoots Kevin and Henry a text to have them warn other hunters-- before hunting down Sam in the depths of the hospital.

“You find anything?” Sam asks, exhaustion dragging at his shoulders. “Because I’m not sure I did-- six dead patients and no one thought to run sub-type.”

“H1N1,” Dean says. “I’m pretty sure anyway. Not really garden variety flu”

“Wasn’t that the variety Pestilence was using--”

“Yeah, no. No one’s turning into a monster,” Dean reassures him quickly, entering the record room and glancing at the files spread across the table. “Not croatoan. Just swine flu… except I’m pretty sure it’s being transmitted by ghosts.”

“Is that even possible?” Sam pauses, shuffling some files back together. “Although I guess ghost sickness is a thing, so why couldn’t… The Spanish Flu epidemic? Really?”

Dean shrugs. “What’s the ghost apocalypse without some zombie flu?”

Biting his lip, Sam nods. “It fits with the theme lately. I saw the cemetery earlier, don’t suppose you figured out who we’re digging up?”

“Yes and no.” Dean shakes his head, holding up his pile of papers. “Let’s get out of here-- I want out of this suit and some dinner before we start digging graves.”

“I’m sorry, what?” a soft voice says quietly from the doorway. “Digging graves?”

Dean stiffens, looking over at the person in the doorway. Close cropped hair with jeans and a flannel, he can’t tell gender with a glance, but he knows that stance, out of uniform or in. “Of course not, officer. That would be illegal.”

“Considering the CDC doesn’t have jurisdiction over the long dead, yeah. I’d say so.” There’s no gun hanging at their hip, but their hand hovers where it would be.

Dean grits his teeth, trying to keep from reaching for his own pistol where it’s resting at his back.

“Whoa,” Sam jumps in between them, holding his hands up. “No need to get antsy about this.”

“Sure,” the cop agrees, raising an eyebrow. “As soon as I hear why the CDC is investigating run of the mill flu deaths and interviewing my brother without also talking to his doctor. Or wife.”

“Six deaths in April and May isn’t really run of the mill, let alone the ten cases currently upstairs,” Sam points out. “And if you didn’t put it together, most of them are young, healthy adults. There’s a couple outliers, yeah, but for the most part, everyone is thirty five or younger.”

“Georgie was in his fifties--”

“Was he the family genealogist?” Dean cuts in. “It would fit with what we know.”

“No. And neither is Eric.”

“I’m pretty sure I know how Eric got infected, and the others with kids.” Dean gestures towards the door. “Do you think we could discuss this somewhere else? Maybe ditch the monkey suits?”

“Dean--” Sam hisses.

For the first time, the cop relaxes, extending their hand to shake. “Suzanne Fraiser.”

“Eric’s… sister?”

She nods. “Eric said you might want to talk to me, said you were asking some questions about our great-grandparents.”

“Which is related to our boneyard problem.” Dean leads the way out of the tiny records room before turning back to Suzanne. “We should talk, just not here.”

She looks him up and down before nodding. “Leave Jen and the kids alone, and sure.”

“Awesome. We’ll meet you at--”

“Oh, I’m following you back to the motel.”

“We don’t--”

“There’s only one motel in town and you don’t look like the B&B types.” She crosses her arms.

Weirded out, Dean meets Sam’s eyes, practically begging him to be useful, but he just shrugs, gathering up copies of the files and tucking them under his arm. “Lead the way then.”

* * *

All of them, every single faction he’s contacted, are abusing the humans left in their care. Some groups are better than others, but none of them…

Castiel bites his lip and wonders why he ever thought something different could happen.

He’s functionally graceless, as fallen as he possibly can be, and still has had more consideration for his vessel than his siblings. He’s invested time and effort into not abusing Jimmy’s trust and faith, and Jimmy has been in Heaven for a long time.

And now, Castiel’s been disowned for it, his own family hunting him.

To make matters worse, he’s trapped here, in a busy city, unable to fly back to the Bunker (to Dean). If another angel should find him…

No matter. If another angel finds him, they find him. He can still protect himself, grace or not. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and pushes it out slowly, leaving the coffee shop that hosted his most recent failed meeting and going in search of shelter for the night.

A slow, miserable, trudge later, he sits on a park bench and wishes for something different. He’s felt Dean off and on all day, starting and ending dozens of prayers without ever fully realizing them. It’s… hard, to feel Dean’s longing, to know he is reaching out, as much as he ever did in Purgatory, but not allowing himself to actually contact Castiel.

The sun slips below the horizon, leaving him in darkness. Castiel shakes his head and drags his phone from his pocket and calls Dean before he can second guess himself.

“Just a second, Cas,” Dean answers, immediately muffling the phone against his shirt, like that will keep Castiel from hearing every word he says. “Gotta take this, Sammy’ll help you figure out what to do.” A few seconds later, he comes back, clearer. “Caught us trying to figure out which graves we need to dig.”

“Another ghost hunt?”

“Seven in a row.” Dean sighs, audibly tired. “I think we get a prize after eight, I’ll have to ask. What’s up?”

Castiel opens his mouth to tell him about his failure with the angels but snaps it shut again, unwilling to admit it with everything so strained between them. “I thought you were looking for something to help with Abaddon.”

“Put Crowley on it,” Dean says shortly. “He’s going to call me when he finds it.”

“And what could possibly be worth trusting Crowley?”

“A way to kill her.” Dean stays silent for a moment. “If I could find another way, I would.”

Castiel swallows, trying to convince himself, again, that Dean can handle himself. “I wish you would tell me what’s going on,” slips out before he can censor himself.

“And I wish everything was sunshine and lollipops, but we don’t get what we want, do we?” Dean snaps. “You’re off doing… something, fuck if I know what, and barely answer the phone when I call.”

“I don’t--” Castiel swallows, the phone creaking in his grip. “I’m contacting the angels, to see if anyone knows what happened. What caused the Fall.”

“Wasting your grace,” Dean snarls. “Instead of helping.”

“As opposed to what, Dean? Sitting in the Bunker, safe but helpless, while you hunt down ghost after ghost and trust _Crowley_ to help you? You won’t tell me how I can help!”

“I don’t do that.”

“You do. You want to wrap me up in cotton wool, safe and helpless, hidden away in the Bunker. You’re suffocating for anyone who can’t get out of your direct supervision--” Castiel snaps his mouth shut, too late. Far, far too late.

“I’m suffocating you, Cas?” Dean asks, his voice dangerously even. “Keeping you from doing whatever dumbass thing you’ve decided to do?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is.” Dean huffs bitterly. “Don’t try to lie to me now, not about this.”

“I’m not the angel on your shoulder, Dean, guarding you from all harm. I need to _help_ , be useful.”

“Yeah, no. I got that five years ago when you told me the first time. But thanks for the reminder.”

Castiel sighs, trying to keep a hold on his precarious temper. “If you wish for me to join you, and help with your current hunt, then please, enlighten me as to your location, and I’ll be there by morning.”

“It’s a bullshit ghost hunt, Cas. I don’t need your help. We can handle it.”

“Like you could handle that woman in white in Cape Girardeau?”

“Fuck you.” Dean hangs up.

Castiel stares at the phone in his hands, watches the screen dim and go dark without Dean calling him back. He looks at it for a long time before shoving the phone deep into a coat pocket, standing up, and walking away.

Rest won’t be happening tonight, not after that, he might as well start searching for the next group of angels to contact.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once upon a time, I promised that chapters would speed up as I got a greater backlog of editing completed. I've got a 15 chapter buffer at the moment, so while we're not going to daily posting, chapters are gonna be coming more frequently. AKA whenever I feel like it, as long as one also goes up Thursday afternoons.

Sam grins at the cops surrounding them, congratulating each other on their first successful hunt. Basic salt and burn, whatever, they’re happy. They’ve protected their town after all, and no one got hurt.

After a couple rounds of beer, Dean slips away, disappearing down the dim hallway towards the back. Sam watches him go, but doesn’t follow-- he’s been off since his phone call with Cas earlier.

Sheriff Robinson calls an end to the festivities early, pointing out they all have to work tomorrow, ghost flu or not. Sam follows them out and towards the parking lot. Where the Impala is nowhere to be seen.

“You need a ride, kid?” The sheriff asks, rolling to a stop while Sam looks across the lot.

“I’m fine. A walk will probably do me good,” Sam says dismissively. “Motel’s not that far.”

“Alright then. Have a good night.” Slapping the side of his car, Robinson drives away.

Sam watches him go before starting to walk. The fresh air feels good after spending all day in an air conditioned cave and then the evening digging up what felt like half the graveyard.

Sam sucks in a breath as he passes the graveyard and the patrol car sitting next to the entrance, a cop dozing in the driver’s seat. There’s almost no chance the ghosts are still around, but it looks like Robinson had someone watch the place anyway.

Rapping on the window, he waits for the officer to roll it down before he says anything. “Officer Fraiser, how are you this evening?”

She rolls her eyes, eyes flicking back to the quiet cemetery beyond the gate. “The sheriff wanted someone to keep an eye out tonight, just in case there’s another problem.”

“Should be silent.”

“It’s a graveyard. It should _always_ be silent, and yet--”

Sam tilts his head in acknowledgement. “True enough.”

“So why are you here? If there’s not going to be any more problems, I mean.”

“Walking back to the motel.” Sam shrugs. “Saw the car.”

Suzanne bites her lip before gesturing to the other side of the car. “Get in. You can fill me in on this bullshit while we watch.”

He hadn’t really been planning on telling her much more than they already did. Ghosts being real is generally enough to send people screaming the other way. “If you’re sure-- Once you know this stuff, you can’t unknow it, ya know?”

Suzanne sighs and gestures towards the cemetery. “My brother got the Spanish flu from some jerk who died a hundred years ago. Knowledge is power.”

“Alright.” Sam climbs into the other side the squad car. “It’s been a while since I was in the _front_ of a cop car.”

“I promise, I won’t run your prints or names. We probably wouldn’t like what we found anyway.”

“Definitely not.” Sam pauses, thinks for a moment. “I think we’re dead anyway.”

“And yet, here you are!” She gestures grandly before grabbing her coffee cup from the cup holder.

“Here we are, yeah.” He huffs a laugh before falling silent. “Right. Where do you want to start?”

She wants to know _everything_ , taking notes and drinking coffee as he tries to pack a lifetime of hunting into a single conversation. He covers most of the common stuff pretty quickly, leaving him with increasingly outlandish tales of stupid hunts and not much else.

He runs out of stories, or the energy to tell them, at about three, leaving the two of them just staring silently into the night. There’s a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, moonlight glinting off something as it goes over the low wall that surrounds the graveyard.

Sam swears under his breath, easing the car door open. “Any chance that’s just some kid being an idiot?”

Suzanne looks at him and rolls her eyes. “This late? On a school night?”

Sam raises an eyebrow and shoves his gun into the back of his jeans. The gate, they discovered earlier, is rusted shut, more trouble than it’s worth. As much as he really wants this to be an idiot teenager on a dare, there’s no way they didn’t see the car with its interior lights and computer. Which means it’s probably something far worse.

“Hey, wait up!” Suzanne whispers harshly. “Whatever this is, I want part of it.”

“Don’t shoot it.” Sam’s mind races, trying to figure out what the hell would be poking around a closed cemetery before giving up. There’s too many possibilities.

“If I can’t shoot it, what the fuck should I do?”

“I don’t know what it is yet, give me a moment,” Sam shoots back harshly.

He needs more information. Staying low to the ground, he silently slips over the wall near where their mystery monster went over and slowly scans the area.

Suzanne doesn’t wait, vaulting the wall and taking off towards a crumbling mausoleum on the northern side.

Sam curses and follows. He nearly trips over a fallen headstone hidden in the damp grass and wrenches his knee before scrambling to a stop next to Suzanne where she’s staring, slack jawed, at the entrance.

“What the hell is that?”

A giant pile of bones occupies the doorway, loosely organized into something _almost_ humanoid. It’s got a head and a chest at any rate, and way too many arms and legs. Points of green flame flicker in the thing’s eye sockets, moving ponderously from Suzanne to Sam before letting out a near subsonic rumble.

“Gotta be a construct of some kind,” Sam says, taking a few steps to the side. The monster watches him, ignoring Suzanne. “When I say the word, run back to the car, get Dean here.”

“Fuck no. I’m not leaving you alone with that thing,” she says firmly. “What room are you boys in?” She doesn’t wait for a response before flipping on the radio perched on her shoulder. It’s been silent all night-- a town this small, Sam’s honestly surprised they bother wearing them at all-- and unobtrusive. “This is Fraiser, I’ve got a _situation_ out at St. Matthews. Anyone ready to roll?”

The bone-thing twists around to watch her, tilting its head to one side.

“Just gotta get my boots on, Suze. Give me five,” the radio squawks.

“Pick up our out of town guest, will you, Reggie? Dunno what this thing is, but it’s made out of bone?”

Reggie’s response is lost in the sudden boney clatter of the creature.

An arm-tentacle-thing shoots towards Suzanne, a chain of skeletal arms flopping to the ground and crawling towards her.

Sam jumps forward onto one of the upper arm bones. It snaps like dry wood underneath his weight, but doesn’t quit moving. Rolling from under his feet, the bones fit back together and continue towards Suzanne. Pulling his gun, he takes careful aim at one of the green flames in the skull structure and...

lands flat on his back, a second boney tentacle slithering past him before reversing course to wrap around his legs.

Sam scrambles to find his gun as the thing starts to pull him towards the main bulk of the creature.

Several gun shots pierce the night. The arm holding Sam jerks and loosens a little bit, enough for him to get most of the way free, stretching backwards to reach his gun. Twisting back around, he catches himself on a headstone, bracing himself with his free leg so the monster can’t pull him any closer.

He gets off a few shots, but the construct isn’t affected by them anymore than it is by breaking the bones. Even with backup, he’s not how the fuck they’re going to put this thing down… maybe if they can get to whoever is controlling it, there’s a chance.

Suzanne lets out a short scream as the tentacle holding her jerks. Sam can hear the ‘pop’ of her knee dislocating even over her scream and the dry grate of bone on stone. She goes limp after that, panting wildly around the pain.

“Fuck!” Sam tenses for a moment, fires a final shot at the skull before kicking free of the hand wrapped around his ankle. Scrambling to his feet, he charges blindly towards the mausoleum, dodging the arm that swings back around to trip him up again.

Another arm, one he didn’t even see, whips around, catching him across the chest and sending him flying. His gun jolts out of his hand when it cracks against a headstone on his way down. Shaken and breathless, he lies still for a moment before clambering back to his feet.

The monster has grabbed Suzanne again, is pulling her towards the mausoleum by the leg. “Suzanne, your taser,” Sam gasps out, hoping she can hear him over the noise.

Grimacing, she scrabbles at her belt, unhooking the safety strap. Eyes wide, she looks at the distance between her and the monster before tossing the taser towards Sam.

Running in, he scoops it up. He fires as soon as he’s close enough, watching with astonishment as the probes touch the central pile and… nothing happens.

Sirens are screaming through the night, but they won’t get here in time.

Sam squares his shoulders, sucks in a deep breath, and does the stupidest thing he’s done in a while: he tackles it _into_ the building, _away_ from Suzanne.

He lands bad, on the point of his shoulder, sliding across the stone floor and into the marble walls. He’s not sure if it’s dislocated or not, it just _hurts_.

The bones rattle as the construct reforms, the flames flickering back to life facing him. Shit.

“What the fuck, dude?” Someone yells. “I’m in the middle of something here! If you ruined my shot--”

Sam tears his eyes away from the bone construct to look at the teenager standing in the corner a few feet away. “You’re a _kid_. How the-- You know what, I don’t care.” He glances at the pile of debris the kid is shielding. “You want to put the witchcraft away before you kill someone?”

“No.” A sharp boot finds Sam’s ribs. The kid-- he can’t be more than sixteen-- turns back to the lit candles in an alcove. Picking a book back up, he trails a finger down the page before nodding and picking the spell back up.

When he tries to push himself up, Sam’s arm collapses under him. He blinks away the tears, taking a deep breath to brace himself before trying again.

Sirens and flashing lights break up the darkness, shining past the construct and striping the interior red and blue. The construct whips itself back around, focusing on the outside.

The warlock is completely focused on his book, tapping his foot steadily. Sam can’t figure out why until the kid misses the beat and the monster shudders.

Aiming a sucker punch at a kid’s face probably isn’t playing fair, but nothing else about this has been, why start now?

It’s not even a good punch, all things considered, but it distracts him.

The kid drops the book, catching the edge of the bowl and flinging components across the room. Even better, he loses the beat he’s been keeping.

The construct shudders and expands, the spaces between bones growing darker. Yet another arm forms out of nothingness, shooting towards them. It bats the kid to the side, slamming him into the wall.

Hopefully just unconscious, but Sam doesn’t have time to check.

The bone pile shakes, growing explosively and losing cohesiveness. Staggering over to the alcove, Sam kicks over all the candles and spills the remaining bowl. With a final jerk, the bone creature explodes, sending bone shards everywhere.

The sudden silence is startling, stretching for several long moments before the cops and Dean start yelling again.

Sam forces himself to check the kid’s pulse-- still beating. “Can I get some help in here?” Giving up, he slumps back against wall, stretching his legs out.

Another cop-- Reggie, presumably, Sam doesn’t remember-- bustles through, gun held ready before holstering it and dropping to his knees to check on the kid. Pulling the hood of his robe back, Reggie sighs. “Aww, Chad, what dumbass thing did you do now?”

“You know him?”

“It’s a small town. We all know each other.” Reggie reaches up, turns on his radio. “Marla, make sure the EMT’s are prepped for severe head trauma on an adolescent male.” Turning back to Sam, he asks, “How long ago did this happen?”

“A couple minutes? Before the pile of bones exploded.” Sam blinks, trying to concentrate.

“Take a moment. Judging by the blood on your face, you took a knock too,” Reggie points out.

Chad starts to stir, groaning.

“Okay,” Reggie breathes out. “Good. Didn’t want to explain that.”

“Sammy?” Dean calls from the doorway. “You okay?” He doesn’t wait for Sam to respond, hurrying inside to crouch over Sam’s legs in the cramped mausoleum. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“That we shouldn’t let the untrained cops deal with whatever was sneaking into the recently haunted graveyard,” Sam says dryly. “Help me up.”

“Yeah, good call.” Dean extends a hand and levers Sam to his feet with a grunt. “Thanks for the assist, Reggie.”

Reggie grunts, his attention split between Chad and the radio on his shoulder.

Sam slings an arm over Dean’s shoulder and limps out of the building. The cemetery is lit up with floodlights from a couple of cop cars, ambulance lights flashing blue and red a few yards down the road.

The paramedics are loading Suzanne onto a gurney as they pass. She lets out an aborted yell when they strap her leg down.

“We need to make sure Jody and them know about each other before we leave,” Sam says into the silence as they approach the Impala. “The entire force knows and she could use the back up.” The driver’s door is wide open, the entire car parked at a crazy angle.

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean pushes Sam towards the car and heads towards the trunk, popping it open and rummaging around.

Carefully, Sam pulls the passenger door open and nearly falls into the seat. Wincing, he folds himself into the car, trying to keep his knee and ankle as straight as possible. “Can you bring me the painkillers while you’re back there?”

The bottle hits his chest with a rattle a few seconds later, when Dean slams the other car door shut.

“Uh…” Sam starts as Dean throws the car into reverse and turns around to head back to town. “You got something to say?”

Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel, his knuckles flashing white in the floodlights. “Plenty,” he bites out. “Wanna tell me what the fuck that was?”

“A magical construct of some kind. Protecting the kid while he did… something.”

“And you have no idea what.”

“I don’t even understand how he was controlling the damn thing. That kid couldn’t have been out of high school.”

“Awesome. Punching above his weight class.” Dean sighs as he turns into the motel parking lot. “I guess we’re not done here after all.” He frowns distractedly before methodically loosening his grip on the steering wheel and heading back to the motel.

* * *

There’s something wrong with the Mark. It’s never felt great but the adrenaline fueled burning that’s been spreading since Reggie started pounding on the door an hour ago is new.

Breathing out, Dean waits until Sam starts the shower before hurriedly stripping off his flannel so he can get a look at it. He hisses when he sees the scar. Bright red and puffy, the burning gets even worse when he looks at it.

He stretches the skin around it with his other hand, trying to see if there’s a split or something that could explain what’s going on.

Nothing.

“What the hell,” he mutters. It takes a moment to dig through his bag, pulling out a tiny, mostly empty, bottle of lotion and emptying it over the scar. The coolness feels awesome, but it doesn’t last. As soon as he rubs it in, the burning sensation returns. And it is definitely _burning_ , not a sudden allergy to their soap or whatever.

He pulls his flannel back on when the shower turns off, resolutely ignoring the Mark and everything around it.

Sam limps out a few minutes later in his boxers, rummaging through his open duffle for a shirt. “Help me with my ankle?”

Dean rolls his eyes before snatching the ace bandage from the pile next to Sam’s bag. “Yeah, sit down already before you fuck it up even worse.”

For better or worse, the ankle Sam shoves towards him is the same leg as the knee that’s swelling rapidly and turning purple.

“What the hell did you _do_?”

“Got tossed around like a rag doll.” Sam snorts. “Screwed my shoulder too, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be better by morning.”

“God damn.” Dean raises an eyebrow before shaking his head. “Alright. Magical constructs. Pretty freaking hard to do, nearly impossible to destroy without taking out whoever created them?”

“Even then, they don’t always dissipate. A lot depends on the skill of the caster.”

“So what the fuck was a teenager doing with one?”

“I have no idea,” Sam breathes out before collapsing onto the bed. “Tomorrow.” He flops a hand around, reaching for something before giving up. “Fuck it.”

He’s asleep before Dean gets the first aid kit packed up. Sighing, Dean finishes and stretches out on his own bed.

The burning of the Mark intensifies in the silence, spreading down his arm in waves. Dean bites his lip, pushing away the pain and closes his eyes.

* * *

Daybreak is accompanied by someone pounding on the door. “Open up,” a cop shouts.

Dean’s eyes fly open, automatically snagging his pistol as he rolls out of bed. Sam is a blur of frantic motion across from him, grabbing the knife under his pillow and pushing himself up.

Dean gives Sam a moment to get set before opening the door a crack. “What the fuck-- Sheriff Robinson?”

The sheriff’s eyes twinkle with barely suppressed laughter. “God, that never gets old. Let me in, I brought breakfast.” He lifts his other hand with a drink carrier and white waxed bag.

Blinking, Dean steps back, sliding his pistol into his waistband, opening the door further to let him in.

“Uh, good morning,” Sam starts. “What can we do for you?”

“God, boys, stop looking like I’m about to run you out of town or arrest you. I’m not here for that.” He pushes the drink carrier at Dean. “Coffee and sandwiches. Sit down and eat something, will ya?”

“Awesome.” Dean shakes himself and takes the bag and coffee, setting them on the table. “I guess you’re here about last night then?”

“You mean why my best officer is on medical leave for at least six weeks and the high school’s star quarterback is probably never going to touch a football again? Yeah, you might say that.” Robinson’s frown deepens as he settles back into the chair at the table. “I thought you boys said this was done.”

“We thought it was.” It comes out a lot testier than Dean wants. He snags one of the coffees and claims the other chair. “What happened last night… wasn’t a ghost. That was something else.”

“There’s _something else_ in my town? Guys, I don’t mean to be rude, but what the hell?”

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Wait, Chad was the _quarterback_?”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“No, no. Just… not the sort of guy who normally uses witchcraft to get what he wants.”

“I don’t have much to do with the high school crowd anymore. They’re not interested in talking to an old man.” Robinson shrugs and drinks his coffee. “But I can see what the guys who get stationed at the school have to say.”

Dean nods. “I don’t know what we’ll find, Sheriff. Hopefully, this will be a one off and grabbing the book will keep anything else from happening.”

“I’ll leave you to your investigation then.” Robinson pushes away from the table and heads towards the door. “Try to warn me if you’re going to put anyone else in danger.”

“We’ll try.” Dean follows him to the door, flipping the lock behind him. Leaning against the door, Dean sighs before looking up at Sam. “What the fuck? This town is weird, man.”

“The better question is why is a jock trying witchcraft get something? It’s not like a demon deal. Witchcraft takes work, and a lot of it, even if you’re using a demon to get the power.”

“Awesome,” Dean says dully. “Lets get started then. Up and at ‘em, nerd boy. Your nemesis is calling.”

“A teenager is hardly a nemesis, even if I’d ever heard of him.”

Dean grins, bright and brittle, and grabs his clothes before ducking into the bathroom.

By the time Dean’s cleaned up and dressed, Sam is already pouring over the kid’s social media profiles. A bunch of it is locked down, but his twitter is public.

Dean takes a few minutes to glance over it before pushing the laptop back towards Sam. “He seems like a pretty normal kid. I’m not seeing anything that would flag him as a risk.”

“Yeah, your idea of normal is fucked. Look at this,” Sam pulls up another window with another twitter account-- another kid on the football team-- and sets them up so they’re side by side. The other kid’s account is filled with teenager shit: selfies, whining about parents and school, bragging about his car. Chad’s though… Aside from the occasional interaction with his team, Chad never mentions football or even school. Every tweet is part of some sprawling role playing game that takes place in real time. Where Chad is apparently the butt of the entire community’s jokes.

“How far back does this go?” Dean asks, scrolling down.

Sam shrugs. “At least five months, probably longer than that.”

“So Mr. Football gets sick of it, decides he’s going to show them all who the most powerful sorcerer is, and somehow ends up with a real spell book?” Dean blows out a breath. “Jesus fuck.”

Sam nods, looking at the computer screen for another long moment before pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s go see if he’s awake and where the hell he got that book. Something about this feels off.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

The hospital staff are happy to direct them to Chad’s room, even though he’s not connected to the flu cases. His room is dark, the lights turned down to help with the migraine Dean’s sure he has, with only the beeping monitors for company.

Knocking on the doorway, Dean sticks his head in. “Chad Meyer? We had some questions about last night.”

“Yeah, dude. I’m here.”

“How are you feeling?” Sam asks, taking the chair near the bed.

Dean stays standing, looking around the bland hospital room for any sign that there’s been someone-- something-- else in here besides the nurses.

Sam takes the brunt of the small talk for a few minutes before finally getting to the reason they’re here. “What were you doing in the graveyard last night, Chad?”

“Are you going to arrest me? I don’t want to go to jail, dude.”

“We’re not part of the local force, so I can’t promise that. But nothing you’ve done is prosecutable at the federal level.”

“Oh, okay. That’s good.” Chad falls silent and closes his eyes. The only way Dean knows he’s still awake is his fingers tightening against the blankets.

“What happened, Chad?”

“I don’t know! I dressed up, trying to get some photos, so maybe folks would leave me alone. Then I’m waking up here--” Chad lifts his arm up helplessly, “And they’re telling me another blow to the head and I might _die_ and that’s my scholarship, bro! If I can’t play, I’m _fucked_.”

“Hey, kid. Calm down.” Dean holds up a hand before Chad spikes his blood pressure too much. “Everything will work out.”

Chad scoffs. “Right. Because it’s not my way out of here or anything.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Town doesn’t seem so bad.”

“If I was who they wanted me to be, yeah.” He sighs, leans his head back against the bed. “Whatever. What else do you need?”

Sam looks like he wants to press, so Dean cuts him off. “When you were staging the photos… what were you doing?”

“I just scanned things first, ya know? To make sure I had everything set up correctly-ish. Then I got my GoPro set up in the corner and started reading things out for real. It wasn’t supposed to actually _do_ anything.”

“Where’d you get the book?”

“Some crappy bookstore downtown. The guy said it was real and the cover looked interesting.”

“I’m sure it did,” Sam says. “Thank you for your time.”

Once they’re back to the car, Dean heads directly towards the graveyard, parking next to the abandoned cop car at the entrance. “I believe his reasons, but we still don’t know _how_.”

Sam shrugs beside him. “Let’s find that video then. Maybe that will tell us something.”

The gate around the graveyard is destroyed, with a few cursory stripes of police tape across the entrance to keep people out. They duck under it and past the broken gate lying forlornly in the grass near the wall.

Despite the roses blooming along the wall, somehow the entire place manages to look more abandoned and creepy in daylight.

Dean frowns as they follow the overgrown gravel road to the mausoleum. The grass and plants are running wild, but with growth new this spring, not years and years of abandonment. He’d noticed it when they were digging the bodies for the salt and burn, but didn’t think anything of it at the time. “Who’s doing the upkeep?”

“The city?” Sam proposes. “Or maybe there’s a trust.”

“Maybe.”

The building is in better shape than Dean honestly expected, with more police tape cordoning off the door.

Sam undoes a couple of passes before gesturing Dean in. “I’m guessing the cops took the book, but hopefully they didn’t grab the camera.”

It takes a couple minutes to find it, hidden in the gloom above one of the slit windows, but it’s intact.

Dean snaps a few photos of the candles and bowls, not that he thinks it’s going to do them much good-- it’s been pretty well knocked around-- but it’s a start. Especially if Chad really was just following some old book’s instructions.

“Do you want the police station and the book or the camera?” Dean asks when they get back to the car.

“My ankle and knee are just about done. Drop me off at the motel and I’ll take the camera. Bring back food?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean agrees.

The police station is a bust. No one remembers seeing a book or checking it into evidence. It doesn't feel like they’re lying, or they’ve had their memories tampered with, but somehow, no one saw the extremely old, super dangerous, book lying in the middle of the crime scene.

Frustrated, Dean hunts down a list of all the used book stores in town and slowly narrows them down to the one Chad must have gone to.

Adam’s Books is a couple of blocks north of the main drag, in the transition area between business and residential. The painted bricks above the door are peeling, making the sign nearly illegible, while the front windows themselves have been painted over on the inside. It looks long abandoned except for the pile of bestsellers by the door-- all recent, all with cracks in the spine and banged up corners. A piece of cardboard is taped to the door with hours scribbled in faded sharpie-- random days and hours that imply the place should be open now despite the locked door.

Dean knocks impatiently and manages to wait a couple of minutes before shaking his head in disgust. Pulling out his tools, he makes quick work of the lock and lets himself in quietly, hoping there’s no alarm.

Dean closes the door behind him before stepping further inside, moving gingerly among the shelves and waist high stacks. The paths between stacks are narrow, barely wide enough for an adult to fit through-- Sam would be knocking things over left and right-- but the organization is meticulous… as long as no one’s looking for alphabetical. Passing through a doorway, Dean realizes that this place takes up the whole depth of the building, far more space than he thought.

Sighing, he tries to get his bearings and figure out where the creepy old spell books-- probably bound in human skin, because that’s his luck-- will be before spotting a mythology book a few shelves over and closer to the front of the store. Witchcraft and New Age stuff is probably close to there.

When he finally finds them-- with mathematics, in the very back-- he’s shocked to find not just one or two spellbooks, which would be bad enough, but over a dozen. Handbound leather covers over thick parchment and vellum sheets with every color of ink. Whoever this Adam guy is, he’s a player.

Snapping a photo on his phone, Dean sends it to Sam before heading towards the front of the store. The floor creaks behind him as he passes through the doorway and he tries to spin around. His feet are stuck, cemented to the floor.

“Dean Winchester,” a nasally voice says behind him. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Did you have something to do with this? Whoever in the fuck you are?”

The man tsks, sidestepping around Dean to face him. He’s short, right on the edge between heavy set and fat, and wearing a cardigan too heavy for the weather. “So you’re the great Dean Winchester. Gotta say, I was expecting someone with a little more… umph.”

“That’s awesome,” Dean says dryly. “I’m so happy to be living up to your expectations. Why are you selling spell books to teenagers? And giving them the power to pull shit off.”

“Dean, you’re smarter than that. I mean, Sam’s very much the genius between the two of you, but I had to see you in action, didn’t I? And what better way than giving Chad a… push.”

Dean scowls, craning his head around to follow the man as he circles around. “So you set him up? Nice going.” His phone buzzes in his pocket, probably Sam. “Any chance we can hurry this along? Monsters to kill, places to be. You know the drill.”

He comes back to face Dean. “Well, I don’t see what everyone’s so obsessed with, but you must have some qualities worth starting a civil war over.”

Dean flinches when the man raises his hand and disappears with a snap. Blowing out a breath, Dean shuffles his feet, ducking immediately out of the doorway and heading for the door.

Something catches his eye when he pulls the door shut, sigils written on the blacked out glass, black on black and barely visible. He tries to photograph them, but the glare obliterates it every time he tries. Huffing, he tries to memorize the few he doesn’t recognize before heading back to the motel.

* * *

Sam groans when his phone buzzes again. He’s barely gotten any work done since Dean dropped him off a few hours ago. Instead of diving into why a teenager can perform spells that only a witch with decades of experience should be able to manage, he’s been walking a succession of hunters through hunts-- Buddy hadn’t even needed help, just someone to back him up in some argument with Asa, which wasn’t even a _fun_ way to kill an hour-- instead of focusing on his own. At least he’d gotten a look at what was on Chad’s GoPro-- nothing they didn’t already know.

And here’s another person wanting his attention…

Grimoires, _old ones_ , in a collection that shouldn’t be in unknown hands. The light is too dim for him to see much, but he texts Dean to grab them anyway.

Frowning, he forwards the photo to Henry and Kevin to see if they can find any reference in Bunker’s records. He shakes his head and goes back to researching magical constructs. The case in front of them first, interesting books later.

Dean stalks in about thirty minutes later, pulling a bottle of whiskey from his bag immediately and taking a couple swings before sitting heavily on the end of the bed.

“Whoa, everything ok?”

“Oh, yeah. Everything’s _awesome_.” Another swig. “Pretty sure Chad is not our problem here. Or that he ever was.”

“Dude!” Sam pushes away from the table and snatches the bottle out of Dean’s grasp before he can take another drink. “What happened?”

“What would know us on sight, be powerful enough to trap me without any visible sigils, and be a smug shit about it?” Dean sighs and strips off his jacket.

“Too many things to count. Demon, angel, or witch top the list though. Especially if they had all those books at their disposal.”

“Didn’t feel witchy.” Dean grabs the notepad and pen off the bedside table. Scribbling on it, he stretches over to hand it to Sam. “There were sigils on the windows though.”

Sam looks down at the symbols. Most of them he’s seen before, but one--a triangle nestled in a circle with smaller circles on the sides of the triangle-- he only vaguely recognizes. “Any others?”

Dean shrugs. “A mix, but pretty standard. Some Enochian thrown in for flavor.”

Sam nods, still staring at the symbol. “I’ve seen this before. Or pretty close. Where did you find it?”

“At the same bookstore as those grimoires. Which is the same place Chad found his.” Dean grimaces. “Which, by the way, the cops have no recollection of him having.”

“So it disappeared.”

“Apparently,” Dean snorts. “So we need to find that in addition to everything else.”

Sam sighs and nods, reaching over and closing his laptop. “Alright. Give me ten and we can head over.”

Dean nods, laying back and closing his eyes. “Sure thing.”

* * *

Dean points out the sigils on the windows, written in permanent marker and just barely visible in the evening sunlight. If the sun was coming from any other direction, Sam’s not sure he’d be able to see them at all. Most of them are standard protection and avoidance symbols-- enough that Sam’s actually surprised anyone can see the place-- and the one Dean had drawn is repeated over and over again, like a signature.

“These are _weird_.” Frowning, Sam pulls the slip of paper out to compare it while Dean picks the lock again. There’s something missing from the center of the triangle-- a hexagon. Sketching it in, he shakes his head and repockets it. Whatever it is, he’ll remember it sooner or later.

Dean pops the lock and ushers Sam inside. “The very back, through the doorway. Watch your step.”

“What do you--” Sam bangs into a pile of books, nearly sending it toppling to the ground. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.”

He has to take the longest, most circuitous route just because only about half the aisles will allow him through. Sam spends a lot of time creating a mental catalog of the books he’s seeing, mostly to distract himself from the creeping unease that’s following him. “Are these… Does this guy even realize what he _has_?”

“Probably,” Dean says shortly. “He pretty interested in gloating and being a smug prick.”

“Because that makes sense.” Sam sniffs quietly, trying to smell out any sulfur that might mean a demon. Nothing besides old books. “Why would anyone with a bone to pick with us--”

“Head up,” Dean cuts him off, gesturing at the doorway. “You see any traps?”

Sam steps closer, pointing his flashlight at the woodwork that surrounds the opening and then the floor. “Looks clear to me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought before.” Dean scowls before sighing. “Gotta risk it anyway.” Closing his eyes, he jumps through. Motioning Sam to the side, Dean raises an eyebrow before stepping back through. “Whatever was here isn’t happening now. Must have blown it’s load earlier.”

“Angel then, maybe a demon,” Sam says, watching the doorway carefully as Dean rocks back and forth through it. “A witch would have needed groundwork, or at least a hex bag.”

“Angel,” Dean says. “A demon would have killed me. Or tried to.”

“Yeah. Ok, let’s get these books and get out of here. The longer we’re in here, the creepier it gets.”

“A clown isn’t gonna jump out from around the corner, Sam.”

“No… something else.” Sam shudders. “There’s something about this place… C’mon.”

Dean shrugs, stepping through for again and leading the way to the correct bookshelf. Dropping the duffle bag to the ground, he leans back to look at the shelf and then takes a second look, scrambling for his phone. Pulling up the photo from before, he compares them. “There’s another book on the shelf.”

“Just grab them all. We’ll figure it out later.” Sam bounces slightly on his feet, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. Reaching past Dean, he grabs a spellbook and places it gently into the duffle.

Dean shakes his head and grabs the next one and they alternate until the bag is full. Sam’s left carrying a couple of books that didn’t fit, but given the size of the bag and the number of books, he’s more surprised that it’s only two.

Leaving is a lot less terror-filled than the trip in. Dean’s on edge until the books pass through the doorway without any problems and is downright chipper as he leads the way through the maze of stacks and towards the door.

“Wait,” Sam calls quietly as they pass a stack of thriller paperbacks topped with a couple of Dan Brown novels. It tickles something in his memory from back at Stanford, one of the random General Education credits he took. “Where’s the art history? I think I know where I recognize that sigil.”

“Uh…” Dean thinks for a moment before pointing across the store. “Over there I think. Do you need something?”

Sam thinks for a moment, eyeballing the maze of shelves and stacks between them. “It’s not worth the delay. I’ll find it online. Let’s go.”

“If you say so,” Dean says before shaking himself and resuming the hike back to the front door.

“This seem like it’s taking too long?” Sam asks rhetorically. A distance of only about seventy-five feet should take them a couple of minutes, max. Not… it feels like they’ve been heading to the front of the store for ten minutes. Something…

Paying very close attention, the room stretches when he takes another step forward before snapping back into place. “Definitely angel.”

“With a failed sense of humor,” Dean agrees. “Ideas?”

“Now that we’re aware of it, if it’s not being actively cast, it should break.” Sam pauses for a moment, thinks. “I think.”

“Awesome.” Dean makes a face before hefting the bag and marching blindly towards the front door. He runs smack into the door before turning. “Call it twelve steps. Straight shot.”

Sam sighs, tightening his grip on the books in his arms and closing his eyes. It takes ten steps, not twelve, but Dean stops him from running into the door with a hand on his arm. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Fucking angels, man.”

“You’re the one with the experience to know.” Sam grins and pushes through the door, emerging into the mid-evening twilight and heading directly for the car half a block down.

“Wh-- That’s-- Dammit, Sammy!”

Despite the hours they spent in the bookstore, there’s no missed calls to either of them. Dean has a text, but his face tightens when he reads it, so Sam doesn’t press. Instead, he stacks the books in a pile by the bed-- inside a salt circle, just in case-- and starts combing through them.

They spend the evening and well into the night like that, occasionally looking at the photos from the crime scene.

Slamming the last grimoire shut, Sam shoves his hands through his hair and shakes his head. “Chad’s book is still out there. Which we probably should have been assuming from the beginning.”

“Boomerang books have happened before. It was worth a shot.” Dean yawns. “Warn Robinson in the morning then head back to the Bunker?”

“Unless you’ve got a better idea.” Sam shakes his head, stretching and flexing his knee and ankle. “We still don’t know what happened with Chad, but if he was getting a power boost from an angel for some reason…”

“Yeah. No one else is going to be able to pull this shit. And I’m pretty sure Chad learned his lesson.”

“Maybe head back to the hospital tomorrow anyway, make sure it sticks.”

Sam shrugs, more interested in sleep and tylenol than anything else. “You want any help carrying these to the trunk?”

“Nah, I’ve got it. Might call Cas.”

“What’s going on between you two anyway? You were all joined at the hip and now…”

Dean picks up several of the books and doesn’t answer, awkwardly scrabbling at the door to open it rather than ask for help. Which doesn’t really answer the question except for all the ways it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adam's Books is a real place, and really does have Good Omens level of nonsense hours. I'm pretty sure it's _not_ owned by an angel, but since I never got in there, i don't know that for sure.


	23. Chapter 23

Cas’s phone goes straight to voicemail, doesn’t even ring.

That’s fine, not a big deal. His battery is probably dead. Biting his lip, Dean leans against the Impala and glares at his phone. Cas isn’t answering and Crowley isn’t calling and isn’t this just the shit that leaves him standing in an abandoned parking lot at midnight.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam sticks his head out of the room. “One of your alerts just popped up. Some comic bookstore in Normal, Illinois burned.”

Dean nods, raises a hand to acknowledge Sam before sighing and running it through his hair. Another hunt. At least it’s not a ghost.

“Awesome,” Dean breathes out when he gets a look at the story. “So… an old Men of Letters’ chapter house burned. The one Henry took us to back in January.”

“Think it’s related?” Sam sits up, wincing slightly.

“To what’s going on _here_? No. To the Abaddon problem? Probably,” Dean says. “Is anything ever not?”

Sam tilts his head in agreement before leaning back against the headboard. “Wanna take off now?”

“Nah. I’ll warn Kevin and Henry, but there’s no point in leaving this mess unfinished just to go chasing after another one when we have no idea if it even is anything.” Landing heavily on his bed, Dean stares up at the ceiling in silence until Sam huffs and turns off the light.

He’s still staring when Sam’s irritated huffs transition to sleep and then the quick, harsh gasps of a nightmare. Dean frowns, rolling over to check on him, but doesn’t get up, doesn’t wake Sam up. It’s wordless anyway, a standard issue nightmare.

* * *

He must doze off at some point, and sleep hard when he does, because Dean wakes up with Sam slapping at his boot and shoving coffee at him.

“Good morning to you too, bitch.” Dean shoves the coffee away so he can sit up. “Why the hell are you so chipper?”

“Chad texted me, early this morning. The book he was using? Showed up at the hospital overnight.”

“Did you check the others?” Dean asks, already halfway to his feet.

“When I went out to grab breakfast. All present and accounted for.”

“Thank Christ.” Dean holds his hand out for his coffee, taking a sip as soon as its in his hand. “So it boomerangs back to whoever last had possession of it.”

“Yeah.” Sam passes over a breakfast sandwich to go with the coffee. “So we’re down to why.”

“Who cares?” Dean say. “It’s a fucking angel. Half the time, if they have a reason, it makes no sense anyway.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it.” Sam leans back and shakes his head. “Think about it, Dean. Since the angels fell, none of them have been using their power indiscriminately. Most of them are just trying to survive. Even Gadreel--”

“He seemed to be using his power just fine. Bouncing you all over the place. Same with the angels Cas met up with.”

“But he _wasn’t_ performing miracles all over the place. None of them are. Flight doesn’t seem to take that much. Not as much as healing or whatever.” Sam pauses for a moment, takes a drink of his coffee. “ _Something_ was worth expending a fair amount of grace to do.”

Dean frowns, shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem right. I wish we’d gotten his name.”

“I think that’s what that symbol is. I just don’t know who it belongs to.”

“Do you want the cops or the kid?” Dean asks, balling up the wrapper from his sandwich and tossing it into the trash.

“Both.” Sam shrugs when Dean raises an eyebrow. “With one of us on foot, it’ll take the same amount of time.”

It doesn’t take very long for Dean to get ready to go-- all he really does is brush his teeth and switch flannels-- and then they’re checked out of the motel and on their way to the hospital.

Sam takes the lead with Chad while Dean slips down the hall.

Suzanne Fraiser looks up with relief when he knocks on the door frame, tossing her pen and Sudoku puzzle down on the table in front of her. “Dean!”

“How ya feeling?”

She shrugs, one hand dropping to tap on her thigh. “Been better. But I’ll get back out there.”

“I know you will.” He hesitates before pulling the visitor’s chair over next to the bed. “Did you see or hear anything weird the other night?”

“Besides the bone monster that shrugged off bullets like water?” She huffs. “Not really. I’m still not sure how Chad got from the fence to the mausoleum that fast.”

“If he’s the team quarterback…”

“Ok, yeah. He’s _physically_ capable of making that sprint. But we weren’t more than a minute behind, maybe two. Nowhere near enough time for him to set things up. Unless that monster was created instantly or something.”

Dean shakes his head, thinking. She’s right-- if Chad had only a minute or two head start, there’s no way he managed to create the construct from scratch. Especially if he’d never used that spell before. And the way Sam described it, it definitely had rudimentary intelligence, not Chad splitting his attention. “Something about this is fishy.”

“Fishy how?” Sam asks from the doorway.

“Timeline doesn’t work.” Dean shrugs and pushes himself to his feet, snagging a sheet of paper and scribbling Jody’s number on it. “If you have any questions about how this sort of thing works on the cop side, Jody can probably help you out. Far better than we can anyway.”

“Right. Dead. I remember.” She chuckles, pushing the paper into the drawer with her personal stuff. “I’m sure I’ll be giving her a call sooner or later. You mind if I share that with Jack? Sheriff Robinson, I mean.”

“Whatever you need to do.” Dean shrugs. “Jody’d probably appreciate another sheriff anyway.”

They see themselves out, Dean leading the way back to the car. “Anything new from Chad?”

“Not really. He swears-- and the GoPro backs him up-- that he was there for at least five minutes before we showed up and interrupted him.” Sam frowns, thinking. “The way the camera was angled though, you can’t see the entrance. So it’s pretty much a dead end.”

“He knows not to be doing this shit anymore. Which is what I’m really concerned about.”

“Yeah.” Sam hefts the grimoire and grins. “I just can’t figure out if this is over or not.”

“We have no leads besides ‘probably an angel’ and the only two who were hurt are gonna live and never touch witchcraft again,” Dean says firmly. “And we have a bunch of new books for you and Kevin to add to the library. So we might as well call it quits.”

They stop one last time at the station, letting Robinson know that, near as they can tell, everything is over. Then they’re back on the road, cruising their way back to the Bunker.

* * *

Castiel can barely see in the dark storage room. He knows there’s another angel in here, somewhere, had caught a glimpse when Malachai’s minions had shoved him in here, but nothing since.

He’s not even sure if the other angel is still alive. They’re certainly not moving or speaking, just slumped in the corner of the tiny room.

Hours later, the door grates open, Malachai standing the doorway. “Castiel.”

“What’s the meaning of this, Malachai? You can’t keep us prisoner like this.”

“Castiel, I thought you were all about free will. I can do whatever I want.” He snorts, stepping out of the doorway. “In any case, you both wish to join my army, so…” He shrugs. “Whoever survives is in.”

“What?” Castiel demands.

The other angel in the room jumps to their feet in an instant, dropping their blade into their hand and attacking almost before Castiel can turn around. The angel blade arcs overhead, aiming for Castiel’s chest. He falls backwards, nearly tripping, before he’s able to deflect the angel’s blade away from his chest. It slices into his arm, cutting through his coat and shirt.

The cupid twists their blade, cutting Castiel’s clothing as they pull the blade free. Castiel gasps in pain, but doesn’t drop his own blade, doesn’t step away. The duel will only end with one of their deaths, Malachi had been very clear on that. Attempting to yield, or stepping away from the duel, will accomplish nothing.

Malachi gloats from across the room, watching the duel. “Castiel, Heaven’s rebel, about to be brought down by a _cupid_.”

“Why are you sacrificing your own followers, Malachi? There’s nothing--” Castiel breaks off, twisting away before the cupid can corner him. He’s been on the defense this entire time, reluctant to take advantage of his opponent’s lack of experience, but slowly, he’s being worn down. And unlike Malachi and the Cupid, his grace wasn’t at normal capacity to begin with. “There’s nothing to be accomplished with this.”

“ _That_ is where you’re wrong, Castiel.” Malachi steps forward, into the cleared space of the duel. “I win, either way.” He bursts forward, grabbing the cupid and throwing them at Castiel.

Castiel’s blade comes up automatically, stabbing the cupid. He squeezes his eyes shut without thinking about it, turning away from the burst of grace before the cupid slumps to the ground.

Malachi doesn’t, standing relaxed, hands still in his pockets. There’s a single smudge of wing ash across his chest, barely standing out against the dirty gray tee-shirt and jacket.

Castiel winces, looking at the blood from the vessel slowly combining with the ash on the floor. “That was--”

“That was exactly what was needed,” Malachi says smoothly. “Now that you’ve become my soldier, tell me what I can do for you, Castiel.”

“I’m not yours.” Castiel shakes his head, taking a step back. “I came here to see what you knew about the Fall. Not to join your army.”

“When Bartholomew attacks, we will be your only hope. We’re done with the hierarchy-- what has it ever done for us? Bart and his--” Malachi snorts, “--army, they’re the one percenters. More concerned with structure than actually maintaining Heaven.”

“That’s not…”

“You caused the Fall though, didn’t you? You and those mud monkeys of yours. Was closing Hell not enough for you?” Malachai steps closer, forcing Castiel into the corner.

Castiel sucks in a breath before straightening back up. “No one on Earth engineered the Fall, Malachi. If you think that, you’re delusional. Given how badly attempting to close Hell hurt Sam, I would be surprised if a human was capable of doing such a thing.”

Malachi’s eyes flash dangerously. “You’re saying an angel would do this? Cast all of us to Earth, lock the Gates behind us?”

“It was not me, nor the Winchesters.”

“Blah blah.” Malachi cuts him off. “Don’t care.” He grabs Castiel’s jaw, digging fingers in hard enough to bruise.

Malachi’s grace invades his head before Castiel can get free, ripping through his memories and thoughts like paper, tearing backwards in time.

Castiel jerks away from Malachi, his blade falling back into his hand. He digs the point into Malachi’s chest. “Back away, _brother_. Before I put an end to your pitiful little commune here and now.”

Malachi raises his hands in a very human gesture of surrender and takes several steps backwards. “Where is the angel tablet, Castiel? I didn’t get quite that far back.”

Castiel ignores him, sliding along the walls of the room until he yanks the door open to escape. Malachai watches him, but doesn’t try to stop him, just shoves his hands in his pockets and tilts his head.

Dog leaps up to lick his face as soon as he’s away from the building, cheerfully greeting him. Breathing out some of his tension, Castiel pats her a couple times before testing his wings. Strained, but they’re always strained anymore, he’s flying too fast, too often, with insufficient grace to heal himself.

Sighing, he sets out on foot, trying to save his wings, with Dog pacing at his side. It won’t take much to return to the Bunker, but…

There are too many angels looking for him, convinced that he had something to do with the fall. Better to take his time and avoid drawing attention to himself. Once he reaches the city, he can find a car before driving the rest of the way.

Dog growls softly, about an hour later, when a white SUV swerves off the road ahead of them.

“Well. Fancy meeting you here,” Crowley says with false pleasantness as he climbs out of his car. “You aren’t the sort I was looking for, but you’ll do.”

“Crowley,” Castiel sighs. “What do you want?”

“I’m hurt. Can’t I just give my former business partner a ride?”

“No,” Castiel snaps. Adjusting his coat, he dodges around the car and continues walking, Dog a solid presence by his side.

“You reek of pain, confusion, and fear,” Crowley says from behind him. “If I can feel it, what about the others?”

Dog stops, turning around to growl at Crowley. There’s an answering growl, deeper and harsher from the hellhound at Crowley’s side. Dog pauses for a moment, head cocked-- trying to understand, Castiel thinks-- before darting off into the orchards that surround them.

The hellhound whines, watching Dog disappear into the trees. Crowley sighs and waves his hand. “Go on. Don’t kill anyone.”

The hellhound bounds off with a single bark, loud enough to shake the trees.

Castiel admits defeat and goes back to the SUV, leaning against the side. “I thought you were searching for a way to defeat Abaddon.”

“And I thought you were settling down into wedded bliss with Squirrel.”

“No.” Castiel watches the hounds for a moment, flickering here and there between the trees. It’s play, but that can change very quickly.

“Trouble in paradise already? That didn’t take very long.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Things that make Dean Winchester unhappy tend to die. Since he can’t kill you any more than he could kill Moose, he’ll take it out on anyone else nearby.”

“Such as killing all your minions?”

“Those were already dead, thanks to Abaddon. But yes.”

“Once more, what do you want?”

Crowley shifts beside him, eyes focused on the dogs. “I’m searching for the First Blade.”

“I’m not an archangel, Crowley.”

“Is that the stories they told all the baby angels? It’s amazing they retained power for as long as they did.”

“All the archangels are dead or imprisoned. I--”

“I don’t need them, Castiel,” Crowley sneers. “The Knights were _trapped_ by the archangels, not killed. _Cain_ killed them.”

Castiel twists around to look at him. “What does tha--” He swallows, remembering how strange Dean’s soul had felt while in Sam’s dreamscape, how irritable he’s been, how angry. “Dean _didn’t_.”

“Of course he did. Barely thought twice about it really, more concerned about wasting Abaddon than what this might do to you. Or himself, if I’m honest.”

“Which you never are without reason.”

“Cain’s retired, wasting his time on beekeeping, which leaves his chosen heir as our best option to remove the bitch from the playing field.”

Castiel closes his eyes. “Cain’s chosen heir. Of course.” Sighing, he pins Crowley with a look. “What _is_ the situation in Hell, these days? You’ve been deposed, but what of the kingdoms?”

Crowley grins, all sharp teeth. “Abaddon has accepted fealty from all the sitting dukes.”

Castiel nods, seeing the barest outline of Crowley’s plan. The _sitting_ dukes whom the firmament of Hell may or may not obey. Titles in Hell, as in Heaven, have always traditionally been transmitted through combat after all. And the winners of those fights have always been the Winchesters. “Only the sitting dukes? That must leave some holes in her court.”

“Yes, although I doubt she realizes the precariousness of her position. Care to discuss our partnership more comfortably, Feathers?” Crowley gestures towards the SUV still idling behind them.

Castiel thinks for a moment before nodding and whistling for Dog. “I’d like to hear your proposal at least.”

The more enclosed area of the car reveals what he had missed outside. He doesn’t say anything-- some things should be kept quiet-- but the scent of human blood is unmistakable. Crowley is more human than demon, even now. He suspects it very well might be permanent.

Crowley opens the rear door open long enough for the hounds to climb into the backseat before he gets into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything before merging into the (non-existent) traffic and driving down the highway. “Is there anything you’d like to get off your chest before we start our new venture?”

“If you betray us again, whatever Abaddon has in mind will pale in comparison.”

“You really have become one of those towering piles of flannel.” Crowley sighs. “Who would I betray you to, Cas? Abaddon, who wants my head on a pike? Or Heaven, who doesn’t care about the goings on in Hell.”

Castiel hums. “We know you, Crowley. Plans within plans.”

“None of which ever included Sam Winchester walking right up to the edge of closing the Gates and _not finishing the job_ ,” Crowley snarls. Reaching over, he flips the car stereo on, blasting static with a rapidly fading signal. “For fuck’s sake. Find something to listen to, will you?”

Pressing the seek button, Castiel moves to the next station. Talk radio, Christian, Christian, news… it takes several tries before he lands on a station that is actually playing music. He listens to it for a few measures before changing the station again in disgust.

“You have opinions on music? Beyond the cock rock Dean listens to?”

Castiel huffs, pressing the seek button again. “Of a sort. Jingoistic odes to fascism, I can live without.”

“And…” Crowley pauses, listening to the lyrics, “Leaving your lover at dawn is acceptable?”

“Comparatively, yes.” Castiel shrugs. “It’s not harmful.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything, pressing harder on the gas.

* * *

Apparently, JK Rowling was right about one thing: there are, indeed, some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and killing a Wicked Witch of Oz is one of them.

Henry slides a plate of toast and coffee across the table to Kevin before sitting down across from him. “Where are we today?” he asks, tiredly.

Kevin munches on his toast, looking at the list of research topics for today. “Your choice: phones and the symbol Sam emailed yesterday or re-cataloging storage room forty-two, which _should_ be mostly artifacts.”

“Neither and getting out of here?”

“Sure. But when you’re back, you get the phones.” Kevin sighs and drains his coffee. “I’ll deal with the storage room.”

“Kevin, that’s not--”

“I know it’s not what you meant,” Kevin snaps. “But until we’re certain the tablets are out of play, I’m stuck in this moldy hellhole.” He swallows, guilt flooding over him. He’s being unfair-- none of this is Henry’s fault-- but he’s barely seen sunlight in two weeks. He takes a deep breath and blows it out, looking at Henry. “Sorry.”

“Kid, if that’s the worst you throw at me today, I’ll be lucky. I can’t imagine how stir crazy you must be going.”

Kevin shrugs, finishing his toast. “Gives me lots of time to take care of some pre-reqs for school and the summer reading list.”

Henry looks at him with something like pity in his eyes and Kevin looks away. Charlie said-- _promised--_ that she’d be back in time for the first week of classes in mid-August. Three more months, and he can lose himself on a campus of nearly thirty-five thousand. He’s not sure what the details of her deal with Sam and Dean are, but he’s ready to be out of here.

“You want anything from the store?” Henry asks after a couple minutes silence. “Might as well take care of that early.”

Kevin waves the question off, draining his coffee. “Vegetables. Fresh ones. Maybe some fruit.”

Henry nods, grabbing the post-it with the list from the fridge and adding to it. “Alright, you know the drill--”

“Better than you do.” Kevin slops more coffee into his mug before heading towards the library. A fun day of dusty books awaits!

Three hours later, the only thing that’s changed is switching stations from Henry’s favored oldies to mid-80’s punk and ska once Henry left. Kevin drops the last two books on symbols from the North American southwest onto the table and sighs. If it’s not in here, he has no idea where they’re going to find that stupid symbol.

Sighing, he settles in to dig through more racist bullshit in search of a slightly less bullshit symbol that looks frustratingly familiar.

Henry comes back a couple hours later-- Kevin’s not entirely certain when he got back to the Bunker, but he shows up in the library with the coffee pot eventually-- and perches in the chair next to Kevin. “Anything new?”

Kevin thumbs through the last couple of pages on the book in front of him before slamming it shut. “No. Not even a fucking hint. It’s all ‘X tribe had Y symbols and we’re assuming it means Z because I’m a fucking white guy who never met anything he couldn’t make about himself!’”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “So… same situation it’s been for the past three days then?”

“Yes,” Kevin grinds out. “The tablets were better than this! At least Metatron--” he stops before whirling around and dashing for the shelf with his notes from translating the demon tablet. Metatron. That’s what he knows that symbol from. “I knew it looked familiar, dammit!” Slamming his notes on the table, Kevin winces when a couple of post-its go flying.

“You know it from the tablet?” Henry gathers up the scattered pieces of paper before looking at the open page.

Kevin snatches his phone from his seat. “Sam, I found it,” he blurts out as soon as the call connects. “The symbol.”

“Hold on, let me put you on speaker.” The background noise of the Impala becomes louder as Sam mumbles something. “Okay, Kev, go ahead.”

“It’s Metatron’s glyph or symbol. Shows up all over the place on the tablets, kinda like a translator or editor’s note.”

“Well, shit,” Dean says. “Didn’t Cas say that Megatron had been in hiding for centuries?”

Kevin shrugs. “Something like that. Missing, presumed dead I think.”

“Instead, he’s running a creepy ass bookstore in Indiana and loaning teenagers more power than they know what to do with.” Dean pauses for a moment before continuing. “Good job, Kev.”

Kevin makes a face at the phone. Dean… what? “Yeah, no problem. See you guys when you get here.”

“Should only be a few hours,” Sam says, the road noise abruptly dying down. “Maybe less if Dean doesn’t let off the gas.”

“Take your time,” Henry says. “We’ll still be here.”

Sam hangs up with his standard lack of closing.

Kevin rolls his eyes, pocketing his phone and looking around at the disaster of the library. “I guess I should do something about this.”

“Actually…” Henry starts. “I ran into some Men of Letters earlier, in Smith Center. They requested our assistance in locating some texts.”

Kevin stares at him blankly for a moment before picking up his coffee cup, resisting the urge to smash it into Henry’s face. “You’re helping the Stynes. Again. Despite them giving all of us the creeps.”

“I’m trading information with them, yes. About Abaddon and what’s going to be required to take care of that situation.” Henry snorts. “Dean’s working with the King of Hell, and you’re worried about the Stynes.”

“Great, just great.” Kevin throws his hands up, flinging coffee behind him. “They are _bad news_. I don’t know how much clearer we can make that. At least we know Crowley.”

“Give me a reason,” Henry says hotly. “Not just ‘they seem off’ or whatever nonsense.”

Briefly, Kevin entertains the thought of shoving the heavy ceramic mug in his hand up Henry’s ass before sighing and starting to pick up the tablet notes. Piling them on top of each other, he grabs the rest of that shelf-- almost entirely things he and Sam have been working on, nothing formally published-- and marches to drop them in his room.

Henry is greeting Eldon by the time Kevin makes it back to the main areas. “Ah, and did you meet Kevin when you were last here?”

“I do not believe we had the pleasure, no.” Eldon stands and offers Kevin his hand. “The Prophet, correct?” He doesn’t wait for Kevin to respond before turning back to Henry. “Father instructed me to make sure you knew you were always welcome to request our assistance as well.”

“Yes, well,” Henry starts.

Kevin rolls his eyes behind Eldon’s back before disappearing back towards the kitchen. He needs to keep an eye on them for Sam and Dean’s sake, but there’s a limit to what he can stand on an empty stomach.

He’s back to the library in a couple minutes, munching on a PB&J while Henry and Eldon try to out-polite each other while negotiating. Eldon wants a codex, Henry refuses to let it out of the Bunker, blah blah blah, it’s not going anywhere fast.

“Henry, you understand that I cannot leave without that codex. My father--”

“If your father was the level he claimed to be, he would stop pushing,” Henry says sharply. “The Codex is too dangerous to risk it falling into untrained hands. And the Book is better off lost!”

“We will regain them both,” Eldon says harshly. “Even if it’s over the corpses of everyone living here.”

“Out,” Kevin orders, forgetting his plan of hiding in the background. “Get out.”

“There are no archangels to protect you anymore, Prophet. You could die, and Heaven will just call up the next one.”

Kevin scoffs, setting down his plate and pulling the gun hidden under the table. “Get _out_.” He barely knows how to use it-- he’s been working on it, but it’s slow going-- but from the way Eldon’s eyes widen, he’s apparently a scary mf’er. Awesomesauce. “Take the answer you’ve been given, and _leave_.”

“Put the gun down, boy,” Eldon growls after a moment. “You’re as vulnerable as anyone else, with a washed up hack as your protector. Do you really think he can protect you? _Will_ protect you, when you’re the reason he’s stuck here instead of out in the field?”

Henry stiffens-- probably about to pretend that Styne isn’t telling the truth-- but Kevin cuts him off. “I said, we’re _done_ here.”

Eldon starts to say something but decides better of it, turning on his heel and heading back out the entrance. Henry follows closely behind him.

Kevin watches them go before collapsing into Henry’s chair, pushing back the plate and gun so he can bury his face in the table. He gives himself two minutes of slightly panicked relief before inhaling when he hears Henry on the steps.

Sitting up, he forces his face into something resembling calm and starts the process of pushing everything else away. “He gone?”

“Yes, I waited until he drove away and then locked the door behind him.” Henry slides into the chair across from him. “I… You’ve all been right, they’ve been lying to me since the beginning. Some of the things you missed--”

Kevin bites his tongue-- I told you so won’t accomplish anything-- and reholsters the pistol under the table before grabbing the plate. “Can you let Sam and Dean know?”

Henry nods, already pulling out his phone.

* * *

The man, clad in a slubby sweater and worn pants, reeks of angel grace when he walks into the bar. He looks around approvingly before climbing onto a stool and watching Gadreel while he washes the few glasses left from the late lunch crowd. “It’s like a lazy version of Cheers,” he offers. “No one knows your name, and no one is glad to see you.”

Gadreel twists the rag into the pint glass to dry it. “I have no interest in joining with any of the factions.”

“Ah, yes.” The man crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. “You never were much of a joiner, were you, Gadreel?”

“I’m afraid, brother, that you have the advantage of me.” Gadreel breathes out slowly, bringing his hands below the level of the bar and drawing his blade.

“Yes, well,” the man preens. “We didn’t all achieve your level of notoriety.”

Gadreel blinks several times, hand flexing around the hilt of his blade, trying to figure out who is sitting across from him.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he says, exasperated. “Metatron. And I can take you home.”


	24. Chapter 24

Sam _may_ have been drinking when he finally finds the room that holds the grimoires, which is the only reason he can offer three days later when Henry asks why they suddenly have a _Restricted Section_ over breakfast.

Kevin bursts out laughing and Dean shakes his head over his coffee and bacon while Sam flails around, trying to explain Harry Potter before giving up and shoving the first book into Henry’s hands.

Dean’s face freezes when his phone buzzes. Dean checks the text, rubbing idly at his arm, before shoving his last piece of bacon into his mouth. “Gotta jet, found a case.”

“Hold up, I’ll--”

“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. It’s a cursed object, practically a milk run. You’ve got a whole new nerd to introduce to your geek shit.”

“Because milk runs happen, ever,” Sam shoots back sarcastically. “I need five minutes.”

“Henry and I can fend for ourselves,” Kevin frowns, looking back and forth between them.

“I got this.” Dean stomps away, yelling over his shoulder, “I don’t need back up.”

“What’s up with him?” Henry asks, staring after Dean.

“He’s been off for a few weeks, I figured it was just him and Cas fighting but…” Sam bites his lip before deciding it’s not worth bringing up the Mark.

Kevin shakes his head. “Hopefully he’ll figure it out while he’s off being a dumbass.”

Sam sighs and nods, listening to the door slam. The Bunker has been good for them figuring out who they are when they’re not living in each other’s pockets, but Sam can’t help but feel uneasy. Dean’s walking into this without backup, without even telling anyone where he’s going. This isn’t just Dean and Cas fighting, or Dean being a fucking jackass, this is… something might be actually wrong.

This is Dean, working alone.

Sam manages to convince himself to not go after Dean, but only just. If it is a cursed object, they’ll need a new curse box to put it in, and if not, he’d rather be here with the lore than trapped in a car somewhere, trying to catch up.

* * *

“We found it,” Crowley answers, as soon as his phone lights up with Dean’s number. “Or a trace of it.”

“Who’s we, Crowley? I’m not walking into some sort of demon hangout for this--”

“God, no. That will defeat the whole purpose of you having the Mark.” Crowley glances across the table to Castiel. “Other interested parties.”

“Whenever you’re done with your cryptic bullshit, Crowley.”

“Last week, the National Institute of Antiquities took possession of a number of artifacts given to it by a group of treasure hunters.”

“So… the Blade’s in DC? I can be there in about a day.”

Crowley sighs and pulls his cup of coffee closer. Castiel is still sitting patiently, but he doesn’t think that’s going to last for very long. “Kansas City. I expect to see you… later today?”

Dean pauses. “Yeah. Noonish. I’ll call when I’m getting close.”

“Dean, do _not_ bring your brother. The last thing we need is him trampling all over this.”

Dean snorts and hangs up without responding.

“Rude,” Crowley says, dropping his phone on the table.

“Yes, well.” Castiel looks up from his own cup of coffee. “Why are you not telling him I’m here?”

“I don’t need him preemptively upset. And I don’t see you pulling your phone out to warn him either, Feathers.”

Castiel pointedly doesn’t respond.

Crowley sighs and drops enough cash to cover their bill on the table. “Well, if you’re not talking to me, I have other things to take care of.” Frowning, he stalks away from the table.

Castiel’s chair drags across the floor behind him. “I’ll come with you. There is a large concentration of angels nearby and it’s not safe.”

“Concerned about my safety, angel? I’m touched.”

“Yes,” Castiel says quietly. “I am. Because you’re the most stable and friendly demon we can have in control of Hell.”

At least he’s honest. Crowley sighs, closing his eyes briefly before heading back to the SUV. He’d been hoping for some private time-- enough to pick up someone interested in making a deal-- but Castiel has been right next to him since he picked him up in Wisconsin.

“Crowley?” Castiel asks quietly, standing by the car.

Unlocking the doors, Crowley blusters his way into the driver’s seat, hoping Castiel won’t ask too many questions. “Where are your angel pals then?”

“Leavenworth. On the Kansas side.”

Crowley nods and aims deeper into the city, well away from the parts he expects to see angels or demons.

* * *

Dean meets them a few hours later at one of BBQ joints that fill Kansas City, barely a step above hole in the wall with dozens of people standing patiently in line for smoked meat to be slapped between slices of white bread.

Dean’s eyebrows hit his hairline when he saw Castiel waiting with Crowley, and they haven’t come down yet. He drops his tray at the table in the corner, quickly opening his sandwich and squirting sauce all over it and his fries. “How’d this happen?” he asks impatiently, gesturing between the two of them with a fry.

“We have a shared interest in your well being.” Castiel leans forward, staring at Dean. “The specifics don’t--”

“Yes, Cas, they do matter. Because I’ve been trying to get you on the phone for _weeks_ and you’ve been running around with this asshat? Awesome.”

“Oi! I’ve been helping with your little tool problem,” Crowley says indignantly.

Dean makes a face, hard and mocking, and tosses his sandwich down, almost entirely uneaten. “Tell me what you know.”

They’ve tracked the First Blade from where a couple of divers dragged it up from the bottom of the sea about thirty years ago, leaving it to sit, ignored and unwanted, in their own personal vault until they both died, suddenly, a few weeks ago.

“What killed ‘em?” Dean asks bluntly.

“The deaths were ruled as heart attack and stroke.” Crowley trails off. “But there were some irregularities.”

“Abaddon then?”

“Her personally? Doubtful, but one of her agents, likely.” Stealing one of Dean’s fries, Crowley leans back in the rickety chair. “There aren’t many she would trust with such a task. If we can narrow it down--”

“Meg,” Castiel says suddenly. “It was Meg.”

“And how in the blue blazes do you know that?”

“Because she just walked in,” Dean mutters. His hand drops to his jacket pocket.

“Hello, boys.”

Crowley twists around in his seat so he can see her. Abaddon must be running her ragged-- her meatsuit has seen better days, but even her true form is looking worn. “Meg,” he says genially. “How nice to see you again.”

“Toad.” She flings him to the side, crashing into the display window in the front of the restaurant. “You’re on my list, Crowley, but I have other concerns for right now. Stay put, like a good boy.” An invisible hand crushes him to the floor.

A few of the local toughs, their eyes tight as they pull weapons out of various pockets, start moving towards them while others start herding civilians into the other rooms. “Lady, we don’t--” The leader gets tossed into the wall behind her, breaking the tile and the drywall beneath it.

“I have other shit to take care of,” Meg sneers. “Stay out of my way.” She barely looks at Castiel before focusing on Dean. “Deanie Weenie. Abaddon would _love_ to have a chat with you.”

“She can take a number.” Dean rolls his eyes.

Meg dips a hand into her pocket. “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

“Insist all you want, I’m not going.” Dean crosses his arms and plants his feet. “Sorry, not sorry.”

The ring on Meg’s finger glows, and Crowley feels his body jerk to attention without his input. Swallowing, he fights it, glowering at her while he fights to keep his hands at his sides.

Castiel steps forward. “Meg, we had an agreement.”

“ _We had an agreement_ ,” she mocks. “You saved me from this bastard and now you’re taking his side? What the hell, Clarence? He deserves everything he gets!”

Crowley inhales sharply as Meg’s attention splits and wavers. He pushes himself to his knees, then his feet, struggling against the force she’s using. “Magnhild, leave this place.”

“How did you--” She winces as Castiel adds his will to the push. “You shouldn’t know that. I killed everyone.”

“ _Everything_ has a price. Especially at the Crossroads.” Crowley meets her eyes. “You think I didn’t make it my business to know who was rising in the ranks? Who Azazel was adopting as his heirs?”

Behind him, Dean starts chanting an exorcism. Crowley is tempted to let him finish-- it _would_ solve the problem rather nicely-- but clawing his way out of Hell will take too long.

Meg disappears as Dean starts the final phrase anyway, teleporting away. Dean stumbles to a stop.

Glancing around, Crowley counts the number of people watching them. Several already have their phones to their ears, and more are recording everything. “We need to go.” Sirens start screaming nearby, emphasizing his words.

“Shit,” Dean mutters. Grabbing a few slices of meat from his sandwich and a few fries, he shoves them in his mouth before hurrying towards the front door. “Hurry up. The last thing we need is to be on the Feds’ radar again.”

Crowley huffs. “Of course, Squirrel, wouldn’t want that string of murders to come up again.”

Dean’s eyes flash angrily. “Don’t think I don’t remember who was involved in the Leviathan fiasco.”

“Yes, yes. But if you can’t trust anyone who’s ever screwed you…” Crowley trails off. They both grimace at the reminder. Jumping into their cars, they peel out of the lot-- Dean in the lead-- and head away from the restaurant and deeper into the city.

* * *

Dean drives near blindly, distracted by the thought that Abaddon wants him badly enough to send Meg to fetch him. The church last winter was the last he wants to see of her, at least until he has that stupid knife in hand. Then he’ll meet up with her whenever she wants. See if he can hurt her as badly as she hurt him.

Shaking his head, Dean sighs, double checks that Crowley is still following him in his ridiculous SUV, and heads the few blocks over towards the art museum.

The National Institute of Antiquities occupies the half-block between the art museum and the art school. Even in mid-May, students are criss-crossing the streets between the buildings, lugging giant drawing pads and easels with them.

Glancing around from where he’s parked on a nearby street, Dean starts changing into his suit. Jeans would work for the school and museum, but if they’re going to get anywhere with the Antiquities… suit. If nothing else, so he matches Cas and Crowley.

He’s avoiding thinking about Cas and Crowley. About them working together, about how Cas would rather help Crowley out with his wild goose chase than spend five minutes with Dean. And he’s definitely avoiding thinking too hard about the emotions _that_ drags up.

(Envy. Cas would rather hang out with a demon then him. He doesn’t know why that surprises him anymore.)

He’s tightening his tie when Crowley and Cas stroll over from wherever they’re parked. “Do we have a plan?”

“Better,” Crowley says smugly. “We have an appointment.”

Dean nods, reaching over to pull Cas close. He can’t help himself. “One day, we’re gonna teach you how to tie a tie.”

Cas’s brow furrows as Dean pulls the loose end free of the knot and starts over. It’s just like when he was teaching Sam how to do this… except he never wanted to lean over and peck a kiss onto Sam’s lips the way he does Cas. Not that he gets to do that anymore.

Ignoring Dean, Cas looks over his shoulder at the students and the busy boulevard behind them. “Dr. Galvan is more than happy to discuss the matter this afternoon, however he was… extremely closed off about the artifact in question.”

Dean sighs, dropping the tie and patting it into place over Cas’s chest. “Guess we’re just going to have to get him to open his mouth.”

The Antiquities building is worn down, a remnant of the post-world war building boom with boxy lines and tiny windows, and… swarming with cops. Dean starts to hang back before a young man in slacks and a sport jacket sweeps up to them at the entrance. “Misters Guard, Shane, and Reynolds? If you’ll please follow me.”

Once they’re past the hubbub of the lobby, he turns back around. “Sorry about that. We had a break-in last night and the police are still looking around. My name’s Jordan, Dr. Galvan’s assistant.” He starts walking backwards down the hall, still facing them. “Unfortunately, due to last night’s mishap, he won’t be able to meet with you today, however--”

“Mishap?” Dean asks sharply. “A break-in is a little more than that.”

“Only when something was actually taken. At this point, it’s more of a security audit.” Jordan shrugs, checks over his shoulder to course correct, and carries on. “Anyway, I’ve been directed to have you speak to Dr. McElroy since she handles new acquisitions. And she is right through here.” He knocks on the closed door, waits a moment, and then swings it open.

“Yes, come in,” a tired woman says. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Quite a circus outside,” Dean says, sliding into one of the chairs at her desk. “Jordan said nothing was taken?”

“Jordan doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.” She sighs, reaches for her coffee cup. “But that’s not why you’re here. Mr. Reynolds said you were searching for a specific piece?”

“Yes,” Crowley says smoothly. “It was part of a find bequeathed to you by the Williams family. From a shipwreck.”

McElroy hums and pulls up her computer, logging into something. “I believe most of those pieces have been passed on to other institutions, but let’s see what we can find. Description?”

“Bone, with teeth still attached, leather wrapped handle,” Cas rattles off. “A few thousand years old, give or take.”

She types for a few moments-- nonsense, Dean thinks, to make them think she’s looking something up even though she’s doing no such thing-- before shaking her head. “We had a couple pieces that matched that description, but one was deaccessioned because we couldn’t authenticate it and the other was passed on.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says flatly, watching her. “In that case, we’d like to see the other pieces. The ones that are still here.”

“I… can’t. They were involved in the break-in.”

“And the reason the one was unauthenticated and thus sold was because the money was too good to pass up.” Crowley shifts a little, leaning forward. “That’s why nothing was taken. Because the Blade was no longer here when Abaddon’s minions came after it.”

“Who did you sell it to?” Cas demands.

McElroy scoffs. “That information is private.”

“Not as private as your spleen,” Crowley says easily. “We just need a name.” Moving around her desk, he looms over her, forces her to look up awkwardly. He doesn’t do anything else, just stands next her, but she starts shaking.

“I don’t know. The offer came through a dealer.”

Dean jerks his head to the side and Crowley backs off slightly, moves to the front of the desk. “We’ll need the dealer’s information.”

“Yeah, of course.” She pulls open a desk drawer and hauls out an overstuffed address book. Flipping through it, she pulls out a business card and reads off the information.

Dean doesn’t know why he expects to recognize any of it-- it’s not like he spends a great deal of time shopping for ancient shit-- but the only thing he recognizes is the New York state area code. Cas nods, confirming that he caught it all. “We’ll get out of your hair now. Thank you for your time.”

“But the interview--”

“This was the interview,” Cas says firmly. “For an article on the art market.”

“Wait!” she calls after them. “You can’t-- This could cost me _my job_.”

“Why?” Crowley asks. “I’m sure an audit will show you’ve done nothing untoward.”

Dean isn’t so sure, but whatever Crowley needs to tell her to keep her from talking to the cops. Pushing out the office door, he heads down the corridor without waiting for Crowley and Cas to catch up.

He’s not sure what’s next. Every time he’s had to deal with art dealers, it’s not gone well-- that auction for the demon tablet last fall was only the latest fiasco-- and if this guy is as gray market as Dean suspects, this won’t go much better.

He’s having trouble figuring out why he’s even here. Crowley and Cas could have done this without his help and just called him when it was done. This sort of high society bullshit is what Crowley breathes and Cas…

Well, Cas can fit in anywhere.

Crowley is already on the phone when he and Cas reach the Impala, trying to set up a meeting with the art dealer and it’s not going well. Dean rolls his eyes, stripping out of his suit jacket and tossing it in the backseat so he can roll up his sleeves in the heat.

When he glances down, the Mark stares back up at him, bright red and angry, the skin around it irritated and inflamed. Dean winces and rolls the sleeve back down. Somehow, seeing it always makes it worse.

Cas’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, twisting his arm over and yanking up Dean’s sleeve. “So it’s true then.”

Dean yanks his arm free, straightening his sleeve. “Cain and I had a chat. It’s fine.”

“This is so far beyond fine--” Cas breaks off, glaring at Crowley over Dean’s shoulder. “Do you even know what this _does_?”

“Yeah, it lets me kill the bitch and then we can get on with our lives. Crowley can take back Hell or whatever, you do whatever you want, I go back to hunting monsters. It’s not a big deal, Cas.”

“This is a very ‘big deal.’” Cas even does the finger quotes. “You didn’t listen to the cost, did you? You never do.” Cas shakes his head. “Very well. We’ll get the First Blade. And then, when you have it, we’ll deal with Abaddon. And then, eventually, we’ll have to reckon the cost of a mortal having the Mark.”

“Nothing can be worse than letting that bitch walk around free.”

“Cain _can’t_ die, Dean. What do you think that means for you?”

“We’re meeting Mr. Develin this evening,” Crowley interrupts, slapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “It should be easy enough to get a name out of him.”

“Yeah, sure, Crowley. Whatever.” Dean waves. “We’re kinda in the middle of something.”

“In the street? Dean, I’m surprised at you.” Crowley fakes shock before rolling his eyes. “Hurry it up, we have other errands to run today.”

Cas sets his jaw when Dean looks at him, refusing to meet his eyes. “I won’t be part of you destroying yourself again.”

“Fine. I guess we’re done.”

Crowley and Cas climb into the backseat of the Impala, leaving him to drive them around.

Crowley directs him to a neatly hidden private medical facility in the suburbs, one of those fancy places that don’t look like anything from the front. Dean thinks about demanding answers, but it’s not worth the aggravation of trying to get a straight answer out of Crowley.

Crowley disappears inside, leaving Dean and Cas loitering in the parking lot in a stony silence.

“Why?” Cas asks. “She’s not that big of a threat.”

“She showed up at the church,” Dean says quietly, almost whispering. “I guess right after she freed herself or whatever. Blew in with more of an army than I’ve ever seen Crowley raise, hell, more than I ever saw _Lilith_ raise.”

“I remember.”

“And while you were getting Sam out, and Crowley was getting himself out… I was left there to fight. All on my own. And Cas, I swear, I have never been as scared as when she hooked her claws into me.”

“When you say claws--”

“She was going to peel off my tattoo and blow smoke up my ass, what do you think?” Dean swallows roughly. “It’s fine, I mean, I made it out. And a few scrapes and cuts are nothing compared to what Sam was dealing with, or you. I just…”

“You have never taken being powerless particularly well.”

Dean snorts. “Understatement.” He’s rubbing the Mark, like that will make it disappear or hurt less. “It’s done, in any case. Just gotta get this stupid jawbone and then I’ll lightsaber this thing and we’ll be done with her.”

“I’m not sure…”

“We’ll be done with her,” Dean repeats firmly. “What comes after is what comes after.”

Cas blows out a breath beside him, staring resolutely out the windshield.

“You won’t have to deal with it anyway. You’ll be off doing… whatever it is you’ve been doing.”

“You mean trying to keep the angels that survived the Fall from descending into civil war and dragging humanity with them?” Cas snarks. “Of course, Dean. Your needs come first.”

“Don’t give me that shit. I never--” He snaps his mouth shut. He needs to shut up now, before he says something that can’t be forgiven.

“No, you never asked me to keep that from happening. Or asked to know what was going on with them. You just ignored them.”

“Cas, I…”

“No one knows how the angels were forced out of Heaven. It seemed coincidental when it was just the warriors, but now?” Cas shakes his head. “Factions have formed, seeking someone to blame, or to raise to leadership, and all of them are determined to turn Earth into a new Heaven.”

Dean sighs, glancing towards the door. “Apocalypse mark… How many does this make, anyway?”

“Three, by my count. Lucifer and then Raphael trying to restart things. Now this.”

“Mark three. Right.” Dean grimaces. “Anytime you figure out how to go back to hunting werewolves and vampires, let me know.”

“Of course, Dean.”

“And Cas-- If you want help with the angels, all you gotta do is ask. You know that, right?”

Cas looks at him warily. Great, apparently he _didn’t_ know that.

“I know I’m not always the best at… offering. But if you say something then…” Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “Anyway, what do you need with the angels?”

“The angel tablet. But since no one has seen Naomi since the Fall--”

“That does make it harder. Okay. We’ll start on that as soon as we’re back to the Bunker, alright?”

Cas nods, his hand slowly slinking across the front seat to link pinkies with Dean.

* * *

Meg groans where she’s strung up along the wall, her organs swept into a pile beneath her, where they dry and toast in the heat of Abaddon’s flames. She is too bright, too clever, to be allowed independent thought. If that means stringing her up regularly, or after she’s come up with a clever plan, then all the better.

The initiative to bring her Dean Winchester was a good one. The failure to either bring Dean Winchester back to Hell or complete her actual assignment of killing Crowley needs to be punished.

Abaddon directs another stream of flame towards Meg, renewing the fire, and leans back to enjoy the tortured screams.

The first of her shedim approaches. It grunts harshly, glancing upwards at her before staying several feet back. “The Blade, mistress, was gone by the time we reached Cain’s hiding place. But we have traced it to a wooded area.”

“Why are you here then? Bring it to me.”

“We are trying, mistress, but the hiding place is hidden from us. Hidden from sight and scent.”

Abaddon snaps an arm forward, impaling the demon on a claw and pulling it towards her with a shriek of metal on stone. “ _Bring it to me_.”

It skitters away as soon her claw retracts, disappearing through the doorway.

Standing, Abaddon strolls towards Meg, resuming her human shape. Reaching up, she runs a sharp nail down Meg’s cheek, blood rising to the surface in its wake, before cupping her face carefully. Meg’s lost her fight for the time being, slumping into the embrace of the chains.

Meg moans, face turning into Abaddon’s palm, her eyes begging for release.

“Not happening, pet. Not just yet. When you can get yourself down, then.”

Meg blinks in acknowledgment, flicking her tongue against Abaddon’s palm before slumping again.

Abaddon looks her over carefully, eyes catching on the metallic glint on Meg’s finger. That hateful ring, useless though it is against her, won’t leave Meg until she releases it. And until then… Meg stays where Abaddon can see or or on Abaddon’s missions.

* * *

The art dealer slumps back against the bench, the red smoke of Crowley swirling back towards his body-- and it is _his_ body, Castiel sees, empty and waiting-- before Crowley pushes himself to his feet. “Albert Magnus. Very eccentric, very secretive, exceedingly wealthy.” Crowley looks nearly human in his true form, half-hidden under the meatsuit. Castiel frowns, so that’s what he had been doing at the medical facility earlier.

“Awesome.” Dean frowns, ushering all three of them out of the park. “That’s a fake name. So we don’t really have anything new.”

“Great.” Castiel pushes at his memory, trying to put together the things they’re missing. “Did this accomplish anything?”

“Whoever it is, he’s connected to the Men of Letters-- Magnus was one of their code names. But if he’s still alive…”

“He’s magicking himself young,” Castiel finishes. “Back to the Bunker then?”

“If you guys want,” Dean says hesitantly. “Or I can go while you guys work on the angel thing.”

“And miss the garden of earthly delights?” Crowley asks sarcastically. “It’ll be faster if all three of us are working on it.”

“It’ll also be faster if Kevin doesn’t have to deal with the guy who killed his mom.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Do you think you can avoid that?”

“I did no such thing!” Crowley denies. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to harm my blackmail material?”

“Well, she’s dead. And last we heard, _your_ captive.”

“That’s like blaming me for you getting sunburned!”

“Crowley,” Castiel growls, “Ms. Tran was captured by you, held captive by your order, and, according to the coroner’s report, was left to starve. Even if this is not your doing, it is still at your feet.”

“But I--” Crowley closes his eyes. “Fine. I’ll stay out of the Bunker, away from young Mr. Tran. Hidden away like your dirty little secret.”

Castiel isn’t sure if that was supposed to be manipulative or not-- Dean certainly looks guilty for half a second before his face hardens-- but conversation ceases until they return to the cars.

“We’ll call you when we have more information,” Dean says quietly, leaning against the Impala. “There shouldn’t be too many people who fit what we’re looking for.”

Crowley nearly slams the SUV door when he gets in, displeasure on clear display. Before Castiel can say anything though, Crowley peels out of the parking lot, heading north and west.

“What climbed up his ass?” Dean asks beside him.

“A lack of trust.” Castiel swallows and drops down into the car. “We should find Magnus before anything else happens.”

* * *

Sam greets them at the Bunker entrance, bitchface already on display and prepared to read Dean the riot act. Dean lets him get started-- back up on cases, where the hell has he been, not checking in-- while he digs through the card catalog.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m reckless and stupid,” Dean cuts Sam off. “Even with Cas as back up. Are you finished?”

Sam sputters.

“Any ideas how a Man of Letters would have survived the massacre?” Dean asks, glaring at the stack of cards in his hands. “Outside of time travel, I mean. We know he didn’t do that.”

“Who didn’t do that?”

“Dunno. Name he gave his art dealer was Magus though. And they’ve been working together for years.”

“This wasn’t just some cursed skin mag, was it?” Sam says slowly, sinking down into a chair at the table behind him. “Not if you met up with Cas.”

“It is _a_ cursed item,” Dean says quietly. “Not a standard one though, no.”

“Dean…”

Dean winces. He can never resist that face. “The First Blade,” he admits quietly.

“How does Cas fit into this?”

“He doesn’t. He and Crowley were working on a thing and I needed to meet up with Crowley.”

“You’re working with Crowley.”

“More of an enemy of my enemy is my friend thing.”

“You’re working with _Crowley_.” Sam clenches his jaw, looking towards the rest of the Bunker. “Are you an idiot? He tried to kill you! And me, and Kevin!”

“Is there an echo in here? Jesus. At one point or another, we’ve all tried to kill each other.” Dean shrugs, forcing nonchalance. “It’s not a big deal. We take out Abaddon, let Crowley deal with Hell, and then we’re back to the status quo.”

“That’s not--”

“Drop it, Sam,” Dean orders. “I’m doing it. Not you, not Kevin, not Henry or Charlie. Not even Cas. _Me_. You don’t even have to be involved.”

Sam sighs and pushes himself out of his chair. “Abaddon killed all the active members. Your guy wasn’t killed, therefore he wasn’t an active member. Either retired or expelled.”

Dean inhales, takes the win, and turns back to the card catalog. “Thanks.”

“Just… Try to give me a head’s up when this goes sideways, alright? Some warning when we’re about to get fucked would be nice.” Sam stomps out of the library.

Hours later, Dean thinks Cuthbert Sinclair is his most likely asshole. His file is just folder after folder of rejected research proposals and projects. The only big project he ever completed-- on the books, at least, although Dean doesn’t kid himself, there’s no way this guy quit working on something just because it was rejected-- was designing the warding around the Bunker itself. “Master of Spells,” he mutters. “Master of hiding shit more like.”

Pulling out his phone, he shoots Crowley a text message asking if he knows anything about the guy and starts digging through the rejected proposals. Knowing what he was into will be useful.

What Sinclair was into is savagery. Experimenting on creatures to find more efficient ways to kill them; warding locked into specific bloodlines and that would damn near bleed a person dry before they ever got through; a proposal for trapping an angel and tying its grace into maintaining the structure of the Bunker. People, creatures, are just components to be used to further Sinclair’s spellwork.

No wonder the old douchebags kicked him to the curb.

_> > Designed the warding of your secret hang out?_

_< < Yeah. Any ideas where he holed up?_

_> > I’ve been searching for him for years. Thought he might be my way inside. _

Dean smirks before heading back to his room, ignoring the implication that Crowley knows exactly where the Bunker is. He does or he doesn’t, there’s no point in worrying about it as long as the wards stay intact.

* * *

Cas stays home-- after a protracted argument ended by Dean slapping the Angel nuclear reactor proposal against his chest and marching out of the room-- but Sam decides he wants to tag along. Something about not trusting Crowley.

Which, okay, fine, whatever. Dean doesn’t see the point in not trusting him, the guy’s in as much of a bind as they are, possibly more. Either way, Sam is riding shotgun in the Impala when they pull into the parking lot in Smith Center where Crowley is loitering.

“No penis on wheels?” Dean asks, glancing around the empty parking lot. “Didn’t figure you’d give that up any time soon.”

“Yes, well, needs must. Shall we?” Crowley gestures back towards the Impala, where Sam is still reading. “Or are we going to discuss relative sizes all day?”

“Let’s get a few things straight,” Dean snaps. “My car, my rules, my way.”

“Would never think of doing anything that would make you question your good opinion of me.” Crowley actually looks hurt, which is odd enough to pull Dean out of his own head.

“Let’s just go,” Dean sighs. “You _do_ know where we’re going, right?”

“I know where my demons tracked him to. Never got any further than that.”

“It’ll do.”

“Are you fucking insane, Dean?” Sam demands as soon as they’re back in the car. “I mean, Crowley’s bad enough, but this guy? Did you look through these files?”

“Did I look through the files on the one lead we have? What am I, an idiot?”

“You are very pretty,” Crowley says from the backseat. “It’s possible Moose got confused.”

“Shut up, Crowley,” Dean barks. “Yes, Sam. I read the files. I spent hours reading the files. And the proposals, and papers, and everything else I could find on this guy.”

“Dean--”

“Do you have another idea? Perhaps some _other_ secret weapon that can take down a Knight of Hell?” Dean slams his palm on the steering wheel before rubbing it apologetically. “I’m willing to listen. But right now, this is the lead we’ve got.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean. You don’t have to jump down my throat about it.”

Sighing, Dean glances at Crowley in the rear view mirror. “Anything you want to add?”

“I can just meet you there if you would prefer to have your domestic in private.”

“Shut up, Crowley. I’m not hunting you down again after all this.” The Impala peels off down the highway.


	25. Chapter 25

“And… I’m out.” Kevin drops his last card on the pile with a flourish and raises his hands in victory.

“It’s your first turn!” Henry protests, tossing his hand down onto the kitchen table. “How in the--”

“It’s a simple mathematical progression--” Cas starts before cutting himself off at a look from Henry. “It’s uncommon, but not impossible.”

“Sure,” Henry agrees. “But that’s the third time he’s done it.”

Both sets of eyes turn to glare at him.

“Kevin--” Cas starts.

“Sam taught me, a couple months ago,” Kevin confesses in a rush. “I think it was mostly just to give us something to do? But the skills cover most card games.”

“You’re doing my share of the chores,” Henry says. “I knew something wasn’t right--”

“We weren’t playing for anything!”

“And now you’re not cheating at cards.”

Kevin grumbles, staring at the stack of dishes in the sink before sighing. “Fine. But Cas is going after the dishes in Dean’s room. I’m not walking in there.”

They play another couple of hands-- Henry wins one, then Cas-- before Kevin yawns and pushes away from the table. “Right. Dishes tonight and breakfast in the morning. Any preferences?”

“Cereal is fine,” Cas says absently, his brow furrowing. “I should…” Abruptly, he pushes away from the kitchen table and stalks out of the room.

“What’s up with him?” Kevin asks, looking over at Henry. “I didn’t think having to pick up his boyfriend’s dishes was that big of a deal.”

Henry shrugs and starts gathering the cards into a single pile. “He’s a strange one.”

In the space of a heartbeat, the lights cut out and an alarm starts blaring. The emergency lights come up slowly, red light flooding the kitchen. Kevin sprints out of the kitchen and towards the map room.

Cas leans over the controls with one hand pressed over his ear and pressing buttons wildly with the other.

Kevin shoves him out of the way, hitting the sequence to turn off the alarm. It blares a couple more times before going blissfully silent. He stands still for a moment before leaning over the readouts. “Did you see which one spiked?”

“The demonic,” Cas says. “But any demon strong enough to trip the lockdown should have also caused panic on angel radio.”

“Nothing?”

Cas shakes his head. “The same trivial problems they’ve been fighting about. It’s… tedious, so I don’t listen closely.” His face is hard to read in the red glow of the emergency lights, but Kevin’s going to go out on a limb and say Cas doesn’t want to talk about this.

“So… Demonic, but hidden from angels.” Kevin experimentally presses a couple more buttons, trying to get the system to reset with no luck. “Sound like anything you’ve heard of, Henry?”

“If Abaddon returned to Earth, perhaps.” He pauses for a moment, pushing his way between them to look at the readouts. “I suppose an artifact of some kind could have been unearthed.”

“Should probably assume that was it then,” Kevin says flatly. “What were Sam and Dean going after anyway?”

Cas starts digging for his phone. “Surely Sam wouldn’t--”

“Wouldn’t what?” Henry demands, glancing up the metal stairs. “Do we need to go after my grandsons?”

“I hope, for the world’s sake, we do not,” Cas says firmly. “Why on earth--”

“Cas, you gotta use words.” Kevin grabs Cas’s shoulder, twists him around so they’re facing. “What were they going after? Dean’s been super hush-hush the past couple of weeks.”

“The First Blade,” Cas admits. “To kill Abaddon.”

“How is that even possible? Cain--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kevin cuts Henry off. “We can bitch Dean out later for being a dumbass. In the meantime, in case the nice red lights didn’t tell you, we’ve got other shit to worry about.”

Cas goes back to ignoring him-- Kevin’s not even remotely surprised-- looking at the meters and whatever else. They’re not going to tell them anything they don’t already know, but whatever. Cas and Henry can look to their hearts’ content.

Rolling his eyes, Kevin checks the front door. Maybe they got lucky and this isn’t going to end with the three of them locked in the Bunker until Sam and Dean remember they have responsibilities here.

No such luck. They’re trapped.

* * *

The ground shudders under her feet and Abaddon watches as the burn-black caverns of Hell change their hue. Someone else exerting their will on Hell, however ineptly.

It lasts for bare minutes, but long enough. The dukes will have seen, will emerge from their towers, will rebel.

It’s about time she had a little fun around here.

* * *

The Blade sears across his nerve endings like a red hot poker, a flash burn of heat and pain leaving nothingness in its wake.

Sinclair gloats in front of him, secure in his superiority, bragging about something to Sam. Dean can’t hear what he’s saying-- can’t hear anything over his own heartbeat and the shriek of metal on glass-- but he knows that’s what he’s doing. It’s the only thing he would do. It takes a lot of balls to be as stupid as Sinclair obviously is.

The chains around Dean’s arms creak and snap when he strains forward. He moves without thought, intercepting and beheading the werewolf jumping at Sam. The body falls with dull thump, more felt than heard, but Dean is already moving on.

Sinclair’s mouth moves, like he thinks he can talk his way out of this.

Dean snorts. Grabbing Sinclair by the throat, he pins him to the column and tilts his head. The Blade wants to be used, wants to bury itself into the soft organs of Sinclair’s belly.

Sinclair might be human, technically, but Dean feels zero regret or remorse when the blade slides home, jolting against bone. His heart beats a couple of times, shredding itself, and then…

“Dean!” Sam screams, suddenly audible.

Dean jerks back to awareness, glancing around the room. He remembers killing the werewolf and Sinclair but somehow all the emotional component is completely missing. “Sam--”

Sam approaches slowly, already shrugging off his jacket and holding it out. “Here, let’s… put that down,” he says. “Dean? You with me?”

Dean forces his fingers to unwrap from the hilt of the Blade, one by one, until it falls onto Sam’s jacket. Sam hurriedly wraps it up in the canvas and tucks it under his arm. “Dean?”

“‘M fine, Sammy. No worries.” Biting his lip, Dean allows Sam to lead him past the bodies and into the hallway.

Crowley is waiting for them near the entrance, leaning against a wall while a couple of near-rabid vampires scrabble at an invisible barrier. “Entertaining lot. Almost as good as a very stupid dog.” The vampires howl in response and Crowley chuckles. “Did you get what we came for?”

Dean nods, weaving slightly when he moves faster than expected. “Blade, check. Now we just need the queen and we’ll be golden.”

Sam mutters something before tossing a handful of dust into the air. It hovers for a brief moment before the doorway opens to the outside.

Sam and Crowley step through before turning to wait for Dean.

“C’mon, Dean. Let’s go.”

Dean looks at the vampires, still scrabbling at an invisible wall, before stepping through. “We’re not done here.”

“Why?” Crowley asks uneasily.

“Because there’s _dozens_ of monsters in there, and we’re not going to let them starve to death.” Dean stares at Sam. “I thought you’d get it.”

“Do you think we missed something?”

“I think that Sinclair was a douchebag and we should clean up his mess. And that includes not leaving a fucking zoo to break out and go on a rampage.” Dean sighs and heads towards the car. “I can’t believe I’m the one pointing this shit out.”

“I get it, Dean. I just didn’t…” Sam trails off as he looks at the side of the car. “What the fuck?”

Dean rushes towards the car, rubbing at the scratches at the side. They’re deep, all the way down to the metal. “What the hell did you do to my baby?”

“Us? Squirrel, if I was going to fuck with your ride, I’d fuck your ride.” Crowley stands back far enough to read it and curses. “Well, all of Hell knows we’re together now, so I hope you’ve got a spare bunk.”

“I don’t read Mordor, sorry,” Dean grits out, rubbing at the scars and glancing around. He’s going have to sand the doors down to the bare metal, repaint her from scratch. A garage would be really useful but he doesn’t think Lebanon has one… Which means they-- he-- is going to be making a trip up to Sioux Falls just for that and…

“Mordor-- It’s not Tolkien, you simpleton. It’s Enochian. And it’s for me.” Crowley shrugs deeper into his coat, sticking his hands in the pockets. “‘Be afraid. Your Queen.’ Afraid of what? My impending doom?” He scoffs.

“Guess you’re stuck with us,” Dean says, glancing up. “Where’d Sam run off to?”

“Your brother, not mine.”

Sam jogs up from around the bend in the path. “There’s no sign of any demons besides Crowley.”

Dean narrows his eyes. Sam’s not telling him something. “Awesome. So they just disappeared while we were inside? It was twenty minutes!”

“And if they could teleport--”

“Fuck!” Dean pushes back up, looking back towards the entrance of Sinclair’s fortress. “Job’s not done. No matter what she’s up to, we need to finish.”

The only upside is that Sinclair kept his collection deliberately weak and starving. Armed with angel blades and the full contents of the Impala’s trunk, Dean methodically moves from room to room, killing everything left alive. Sam and Crowley silently follow in his wake, gathering up the bodies for a clean burn.

“And we’re done here,” Sam says flatly, slamming the trunk shut. “Can we get out of here now?”

“What’s your hurry, Moose?” Crowley goads.

“Eager to get this thing back under protection,” Sam shoots back. “Away from demons who might try to steal it. Away from _you_.”

“Get in the car, Sam,” Dean orders.

Crowley looks at the car before shaking his head. “You two dunderheads go ahead. I’ll meet you in Smith Center.” He looks around the clearing one last time before disappearing.

Sam manages to stay quiet for about five minutes before starting in. “So you and Crowley. Anything I need to know about?”

“There’s nothing to know,” Dean says, puzzled. “He’s got the same interest in taking out Abaddon as we do, possibly more of one.”

“That’s not-- Whatever. Now what?”

“Now,” Dean sighs. “Now we cast as wide of a net as we can and see where it gets us.”

* * *

“You want to talk about it?” Sam finally asks once they’re back on the highway.

“Talk about what?”

“The murderous rampage back there? How out of control you were?”

“I was not out of control, Sam. I wanted to deal with the zoo while we were there instead of coming back and dealing with it later.”

“Not that. Sinclair.” Sam crosses his arms and looks out the window. “You couldn’t even hear me when that knife was in play.”

“I…” Dean shakes his head. “It wasn’t the Blade. It was… I don’t know, everything. I’ll be prepared next time.”

Sam grunts doubtfully. He doesn’t have a whole lot of faith that more exposure is going make Dean and the Blade a better, more controlled, situation.

He waits until Dean’s distracted before pulling out his phone to text Kevin to see if he remembers anything. Cas, if he does, won’t tell them anything they couldn’t get out of Dean and Henry has a basic knowledge of a lot of things… but none at all for something like this.

His phone is oddly silent for the drive back, not even a response to his text.

There’s no sign of anything wrong when Dean pulls up to the front door. Henry’s beater is parked the same place it was this morning and there’s nothing wrong with the doors.

Sighing, Sam pulls the key from his duffel in the trunk and looks over at Dean. “How much that the Bunker is in lock down again and we never figure out why?”

“No bet,” Dean says shortly. “That’s exactly what we want it to do, so I’m not gonna bad mouth its choices.”

“You really think it’s alive?” Sam asks, pulling the door open and looking up the short flight of stairs to ground level.

“I really think Sinclair was a sick son of a bitch who was jonesing to use an angel to power the thing and wouldn’t think twice of enslaving something else to be the Bunker’s backbone.” Dean scowls before shaking his head. “Go let the eggheads out.” He stomps around the car and Sam hears the dull thud of bags hitting the ground.

Kevin doesn’t greet him with a crossbow bolt this time, which is a pretty good sign that they figured out what happened and decided to sit tight until someone showed up to let them out.

“Guys?” Sam calls out. “Where are you?”

“Reset the breakers while you’re up there, will you?” Kevin tiredly requests, sticking his head through the doorway that leads to the kitchen. “I’ve been doing dishes in the dark.”

“Where’s Cas and Henry?” Sam jimmies open the panel and resets the switch, waiting for the hum of the generators spinning up. “We weren’t gone that long.”

“Cas… can read in the dark. Or the emergency lighting anyway.”

“And Henry?”

Kevin shrugs and disappears back to the kitchen.

Sighing, Sam goes back upstairs to help Dean with the bags.

Which are still piled near the rear of the Impala, ignored while Dean crouches to grope the scratches in the paint in the failing light. “What’s the verdict?” Dean calls over his shoulder.

“Lock down and Kevin is _way_ too used to this. We need to get him some hobbies or something.”

“I thought that’s what college was for.” Dean shakes his head. “Once Heaven is dealt with, anyway.”

Sam rolls his eyes. If Dean doesn’t want to believe that Charlie and Kevin aren’t sticking around for much longer-- a month and a half, maybe two, depending on when freshman orientation is-- he’s not going to make him, but the willful ignorance isn’t doing him any favors. “Sure, Dean. How’s the paint job?”

“Fuckers scratched all the way to the fucking metal. I’m gonna have to sand it all the way down and repaint her.”

Sam thinks back a couple years to the last time Dean had to rebuild the Impala, the days of work that went into painting her. “How long?”

“If I could do it here? It’d be three to four days. But I’m gonna have to take her up to Sioux Falls. At least a week, probably longer.” Dean snorts, pushing himself up and snagging his bag. “I want a beer and some food first.”

Sam frowns, reaching over to grab his own bag and the weapons. Dean will throw a temper tantrum if he has to go on a hunt without the Impala, but if she’s going to be out of commission for a week… There’s no way Dean will go that long without a hunt, not with how hard he’s been going lately.

Dean yanks on the door and kicks it when it doesn’t open. “Very funny, Sam. Did you lock it behind you?”

“What? No. Why would I do that?”

Dean jostles the door handle again. It doesn’t move, doesn’t even shake the door. “What the hell?”

“Let me try.” Sam pushes Dean to the side and pulls at the door. There’s some resistance, but it opens easily enough. Until Dean takes a step forward and the door jerks itself out of Sam’s grip to seal itself shut.

Dean backs away, all the way up the stairs, and the door opens without a problem.

“What did you…” Sam trails off, catching sight of the canvas jacket tucked on top of Dean’s duffel. “The First Blade.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes out. Dropping his bag, he climbs back down the stairs and waits for Sam to try the door again. Nothing, sealed shut again.

“Dean, I…”

“It’s fine, Sammy. I, uh, I’m gonna go grab a burger, maybe a room in town. You guys can research, see if you can convince it that I’m not a threat.”

Sam looks at him skeptically. If the Bunker is alive, he has no idea how to convince it of anything. And the warding is complicated enough that breaking it to let Dean in will let everything else in too. “Do you want me to grab you some clean clothes or--”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m good.” He drops the bags in the trunk before slamming it shut. It’s almost full dark now, and Sam can’t see his face, but he recognizes that set to Dean’s shoulders. He’s going to do something stupid.

“Keep me updated,” Sam says. “Say hi to Jody for me.”

“I wasn’t--”

“You were. Don’t drive all night.”

“It won’t be all night. Sioux Falls isn’t even six hours.” Dean grunts and pulls the car door open. “Whatever.”

Sam’s still frowning when he reaches the kitchen where Kevin is finishing up the dishes.

“Sam? Where’s Dean?”

“He… can’t get in.” Slumping at the kitchen table, Sam stares blankly at the Formica top. “Something--”

“We’ll figure it out,” Kevin says confidently. “We always do.”

* * *

He can’t deal with Donnie and Georgia at the Milton tonight. Not when he’s demonic enough that the fucking wards won’t let him in. Dean watches the gathering dark for a couple minutes before shaking his head. Red Cloud it is, just across the state line.

He gets as far as the door of the steakhouse when he realizes that the last thing he wants is to be around people. Frowning, he turns around and heads up the street towards to the convenience store where he grabs a couple slices of pizza and a bottle of whiskey before driving to the far side of town and snagging a room in the nearly empty motel.

Today’s paper is still on the stand in the lobby, headlines screaming about terrorism attacks in Syria and a deadly tornado in Oklahoma. Sighing, he tosses a couple bucks down for the paper before accepting his room key and walking over to his room.

It’s hideous, even for the sort of room they’re used to, medical green walls and furniture from the sixties. The pizza is lukewarm, despite the heat outside, and the whiskey burns on its way down. Scowling, Dean tosses the pizza aside-- he’s not hungry anyway-- and focuses on the whiskey and the paper.

Story after story of terrible things in the world and every single one of them could be Abaddon. Or none of them. There’s no way to tell from here and like hell he’s gonna get on a plane to an active war zone.

Cas shows up about halfway through the bottle. Dean’s pretty sure he didn’t text him, but sometimes Cas just shows up. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you could use some company.”

“I’m fine,” Dean grunts, taking a long drink of the whiskey, wishing it still burned. Hell, it’d be nice to feel _anything_. “You’ve got better shit to do anyway, right? Something about helping angels return to Heaven.”

“You’re more important.” Cas tilts his head, watching Dean. His face is doing something, but Dean doesn’t know what. It’s probably pity.

“You don’t gotta lie anymore.” Dean bites his lip and falls backwards. “You got yourself out of that duty a few weeks ago. When we stopped--” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to talk about that fight. Or any of the ones since.

“Dean.” Cas sits on the edge of the bed beside Dean’s sprawl. “Is the whiskey helping?”

“Managed to lock myself out of the only safe place we know,” Dean says. “So, no, but I’m pretty sure it’s not hurting either.”

“It’s the First Blade that’s the problem. Not you,” Cas says confidently. Like that’s believable at all. “Once it is no longer in your possession--”

Dean snorts. “That’s not happening until we’ve dealt with Abaddon. And she’s gunning for us with more firepower than we have any chance of matching. Not to mention whatever is going on with the angels and--”

“None of which we can do anything about right now.” Cas reaches over and grabs the newspaper. “So let’s hunt.”

They spend the rest of the night bent over the paper and getting additional information off their phones when the story might actually turn into something. By the time the bottle’s empty, they’ve narrowed their choices to probably vampires in Little Rock or something hungry haunting the woods of northern Minnesota.

“I don’t know, man. It looks like a wendigo, but also like a rougarou gone rabid. Both of those are nasty pieces of shit. Hell, it could be something else entirely.”

“Is there someone we can pass that onto while we take the vampires?”

Dean sighs and shakes his head. “No one’s heard from Garth since he went after those fairies in Washington state a few weeks back and I don’t know anyone else who can get there fast enough.”

“In that case, we’ll get someone else to deal with the vampires and we’ll take Minnesota.” Cas nods, stealing the empty bottle from Dean’s loose grip and setting it firmly on the desk. “We can leave in the morning.”

Dean wants to protest, but for the first time in weeks, being tired corresponds with actual time to sleep. He’s asleep before he’s under the covers, only vaguely aware of Cas pulling a blanket over him.

* * *

Gadreel waits patiently while Bartholomew’s representative-- Efram-- expounds on the necessity of joining his faction, the promise of vessels for every angel, returning to Heaven triumphant over anyone who stands in his way. The glory days of Heaven as it was before Castiel’s interference and will be again.

Listening to Efram, Gadreel wonders if he has any idea what Heaven was like for anyone not part of Naomi’s department. Unity in the ranks hasn’t been true since before the Apocalypse, and Raphael’s heavy handed attempts certainly did not increase it. If he, who has spent millennia isolated and imprisoned, knows that, then surely the other angels do as well.

“A counter offer,” Gadreel says loudly when Efram pauses to take a breath. “Abandon Bartholomew’s failure and work towards actually building a better Heaven. Free from Naomi’s tyranny.”

“Naomi? No one has see her in weeks, since the Fall. She’s dead, or might as well be.”

Gadreel files the information away to report back to X. Turning on his heel, he starts to walk away to resume his other tasks but Efram grabs his shoulder. Efram is too full of himself to be useful for their plans, but too powerful to be killed directly. He’ll have to take other steps.

“Bartholomew will be the one leader in Heaven, when we return. Only those that follow him will be allowed back.”

Deliberately, Gadreel steps further away, leaving Efram’s arm sticking out. “And have _you_ returned to Heaven since the Fall, brother? Has Bartholomew discovered the way home?” He doesn’t try to hide the flare of grace when he flings Efram away from him and into the brick wall. “Only the chosen will retain their grace and return.”

Efram glares up at Gadreel from the corner, murder in his eyes, but the other angels hiding in the shadows of the alley ignore him entirely.

“Truly, brother? You can return to Heaven?” Their vessel is a child, barely entering puberty. “Can you assist us with finding more suitable vessels as well?”

“Indeed.” Gadreel smiles as more angels come out of the shadows. Five more followers he can take to X before using them to infiltrate the other factions. He doesn’t need to instruct them-- as one, they turn on Efram, blades flashing in the moonlight.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. Guess who finished editing this monster yesterday! [insert "this guy" gif]  
> Prepare for an onslaught! Aka: I'm pressing publish on every remaining chapter tonight.

In a lot of ways, Minnesota in the early summer reminds Castiel of Purgatory: hot, humid, and utterly thankless. Not even watching Dean, fully in his element as he hunted down the rougarou, makes this worthwhile.

Castiel slaps another mosquito away, leaning against the Impala and glares at the sign and statue across from the gas station. He’s not sure if the wooden figure is supposed to be humorous or serious, but either way, it’s an affront to good taste.

“What’s up?” Dean demands, dropping a bag of jerky and some other snacks through the open window next to him before looking around. His mouth drops open when Castiel gestures to the statue. “Holy crap, that’s… wow.”

Castiel’s face falls. “I was hoping that I was just misreading it.”

“Nope, that really is as racist as you think it is. Possibly more.” Dean frowns before slapping the top of the car. “C’mon. Daylight’s burning and since that thing isn’t, we should get moving.”

“I can fix that,” Castiel threatens, stepping away from the car. “It’s wood.”

Dean snorts. “I’d rather your first felony not be arson in a state park.”

Frowning, Castiel gets back into the car, pushing the jerky and other snacks out of the way. “Any word from Sam regarding the warding?”

Dean shrugs, fingers tightening on the wheel before pulling into traffic. “Not really. Henry found Sinclair’s original notes and proposal, but it’s slow going. He focused on spellwork and Sam and I never lived anywhere long enough for extensive warding.”

“I can--”

“It’s not that big of a deal. So I’m living out of my car again, who cares. This is where I do the most good anyway,” Dean says flatly.

“Dean, I can _help_.”

“Really? Because you have no more idea how the warding works than we do, can’t bring Bobby back from the dead, and our next best expert is a fucking demon, probably off getting high.”

“Don’t you think I would have saved Bobby if I could? And Crowley will do whatever’s best for him. Which is _not_ getting high.” Probably. Castiel thinks back to the changes in Crowley’s true form. That level of change… even if it’s not permanent, parts of him are forever twisted back into a human shape. They can only hope no one gets it into their head to toss Crowley back on the rack.

Dean’s jaw clenches and he scrubs a hand over his face before glancing over. “Shit. I know it’s not your fault, Cas. Sorry.”

Castiel looks straight ahead, biting his tongue. “What are we going to do now?”

Dean almost looks guilty, like he knows that he’s bearing bad news. “Jody called-- she’s got three vamp kills and a runaway locked up. Told her we’d take a look.”

“What about Sam?”

“What about him? He’s got his thing and we’ve got ours.”

“Dean, I’m nearly human, I don’t--”

“Cas, I’m doing this. You can hang out at Jody’s if you don’t want to help, or fuck off with Crowley. Whatever.”

“Of course, Dean.” Castiel sighs and shifts in his seat. “I always wanted to be a hunter.”

* * *

“About time you showed up,” Jody says sourly when Dean and Cas walk into the station that evening. “Girl’s a menace-- She bit one of my officers!”

“He’s okay?” Dean asks sharply, looking up to meet Jody’s eyes. “This isn’t--”

Jody shakes her head. “I would have yelled for help a lot faster if she was a vamp.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and gestures around to the cops that surround them, most of them close enough to overhear.

Jody snorts and shakes her head. “We’re ok. Everyone on duty today has been here at least five years.”

Before the Apocalypse, Dean silently fills in. Before Death took a walk in a small town cemetery just to prove a point.

“This is what we’ve got,” Jody sighs and passes Cas a folder. “Which is almost nothing. She won’t even give us a name, let alone anything that will let me find her in the system.”

Dean nods, reading the report over Cas’s shoulder. It doesn’t say much Jody didn’t already tell them: mid-teens, picked up sleeping rough in the city park-- across from the bus station, Dean notes, so she was probably between buses-- and “Scar tissue?”

Jody nods, looking vaguely ill. “Years of it, everywhere blood is easy to get to.”

“That’s what made you search for vampires?” Cas rumbles beside him.

“Bobby warned me about them, before--” She breaks off. “Anyway. I found a couple maybes and a solid yes over in Nebraska. That was before she bit Frank.”

“Alright,” Dean says. “Lets go talk to her.”

Despite following them around for years, Cas’s interviewing skills are still garbage, so Dean tells him to stay silent and self-important in the corner. At the last moment, Jody follows them in, glaring at Dean when he starts to protest.

Accepting defeat, Dean turns back to the girl, half hidden behind her hair at the interview table. Breathing out, he tries to make himself as nonthreatening as possible, channeling his inner Sam or zen or whatever such crap.“Scar tissue, signs of malnutrition, near silence, and oh yeah, capable of breaking skin on a forty year old.”

Quick as a snake, he grabs her wrist and pulls it across the table, pushing her sleeves back. “Jesus,” he swears, pinning her hand to the table while he checks out the scars. Bite marks cover her forearm, clustered thickly along the veins until they overlap each other. “We can help you. We _want_ to help you.”

“You can’t,” she whispers harshly. “I’ve been here too long already.”

“Let’s start with a name,” Jody says, ignoring the girl’s doom and gloom.

“Why? So you can run me through the system and my family can find me _faster_?”

Dean frowns at the slight catch in her voice. “They’re not your family, not really. That’s why you ran away.”

A deputy knocks on the door behind them and Jody steps out to deal with it. She comes back in a moment later with another slip of paper. “Got the DNA results back. Matches a missing person case from a few years ago.” Passing Cas the sheet of paper, she stands next to Dean. “Why’d you run away, Annie?”

“That’s not my name.”

“Eight years ago, Annie Jones was taken from the playground near her grandmother’s house. She was never found.” Jody pauses and crosses her arms. “Last night, a dead body turned up behind the bus station in O’Neill, Nebraska. She’d been tortured for hours before being drained of blood and her throat ripped out.”

Annie’s face pales and she shakes her head. “I can’t help you.”

“Your ‘family’ killed someone to find you,” Dean says bluntly. “Annie, you lived with them for years, they have your scent cold. There’s no way they can’t track you. And now they know exactly where you were heading.”

“ _Alex_ ,” she breathes out, still pale. “My name is Alex.”

Jody snorts, tapping Cas on the arm and gesturing him outside. Dean waits patiently for them to leave before launching into the probing questions that will hopefully get him some useful information on the nest.

She refuses to answer any questions about where he can find the vampires, about their habits, even how many there are. It’s a small nest, or she’d be dead, even if she was able to lure someone to feed them every night. Four or five, _maybe_ six on the outside.

Frustrated, he slams out of the room and directly into Jody. “Sorry,” he grits out. The Mark on his arm is flaring along with his temper, the heat of it tangible even through his suit jacket and burning its way to the bone.

“Nothing?”

“Not a goddamn word.” He leans against the wall, resisting the urge to cover his arm with his free hand. “You can try calling in Grandma.”

“Dead. There’s no one left to call.”

“Shit.” Dean sighs and tries to work his way through the possibilities. He’s no stranger to pain, but this is deep enough that he’s having trouble concentrating.

“Dean? Everything okay?” Jody asks, stepping forward and raising her hand like she’s going to touch him.

He flinches back. “Everything’s copacetic. Do you have someplace you can take her?”

Jody frowns, letting her hand drop. “You mean somewhere away from my station filled with civilians who’ll get chewed up and murdered? Yeah. I’ve got a place.”

Dean nods, blowing out a breath. “Get her out of here. Cas and I’ll hunt down the nest. You said Nebraska?”

“That’s where the bus was from and those bodies dropped in O’Neill. Three hours southwest, more or less.”

Squaring his shoulders, Dean heads back into the interview room with Jody on his heels. “Okay, Alex. Here’s how this is gonna go. You’re going to _behave_ and go with the sheriff. My partner and I are going to deal with everything else.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “That I can’t help you.”

“No, you’re not.” Dean meets her eyes for a brief moment until she looks away. “You know they’re bad folks-- that’s why you left-- but you can’t be fucked to stand up to them.”

“Fuck you,” she spits back, crossing her arms. “My brothers are going to be looking for me. Mama...” Alex trails off, swallowing heavily. “I’ve already disappointed her.”

Jody pushes Dean out of the way, grabbing the chair and sitting down across from her. “Alright, we’ve got some time. Let’s talk.”

Accepting his dismissal, Dean leaves.

* * *

“Cas, are you sure? I can be there in just a few hours.” Sam stares at the map spread across the table. “Sioux Falls isn’t that far.”

“Dean needs to do _something_ ,” Cas cuts him off. “Since he can’t get into the Bunker…”

“That’s bullshit! There’s no reason the wards wouldn’t let him in if he would let go of the stupid Blade.”

“Yelling at me accomplishes nothing, _and_ you’ve tried to get Dean in without the Blade already,” Cas points out quietly. “Even if it worked, he won’t be parted from the First Blade until Abaddon is dead. He can’t take care of her until we know where she is and who will fill the resulting power vacuum.”

“We’ve never cared about that before,” Sam whines before remembering he’s a grown man. “There’s gotta be another way.”

“As a result of not caring,” Cas continues relentlessly, “we’re dealing with civil wars in both Heaven and Hell.”

“Cas, that’s not--”

“Angels are already fighting,” Cas points out, ignoring Sam. “I would like, very much, to avoid the same in Hell.”

“Awesome.” Sam sighs. “So what do you want me to do?”

“See what else you can find for this hunt? He’s not stopping to research. Once you have that… see if Jody wants you here. I’ll stay with Dean. He shouldn’t be hunting alone, but we can trade off who’s with him.”

“Because babysitting him is going to go over so much better,” Sam says sarcastically. “We’ll get maybe two switches before he starts bitching.”

“We’ll deal with it when we get that far.” Cas hangs up abruptly.

Sam looks at his phone for a long moment before pulling his laptop over. When he goes looking, he finds dozens of missing person cases-- mostly long haul truckers-- from southern South Dakota and northern Nebraska going back a lot longer than eight years. They should have found this pattern a long time ago.

Sighing, Sam bundles up all the information he can find and shuffles off to get ready to go.

* * *

O’Neill, Nebraska is a tiny shit hole of a town that Dean hates on sight. ‘Nebraska’s Irish Capital’ proclaims a faded hand painted sign on the way into town, accompanied by a list of all the fraternal organizations that are still active.

Dean stops in a diner long enough to map the abandoned properties Sam emailed him and to figure out which is going to be their best bet. It doesn’t take him very long-- the police blotter is full of complaints about squatters at an old farm on the edge of town.

The house looks abandoned-- the windows boarded up and the grass hasn’t been mowed in years-- but even in the moonlight, Dean can see paths trampled through the undergrowth.

Dean circles around to the back of the house, Cas at his back. A wood chipper sits a few yards away from the kitchen door, the ground behind it suspiciously moist and reeking of blood. Shuddering, Dean steps around it in a huge arc, trying to avoid getting any blood on his boots.

The house feels empty when they’re inside. Not long term empty, but no one has been here for a day or two. “Probably hunting Alex,” he whispers to Cas, pulling his flashlight from his pocket. He doesn’t turn it on yet, but he wants to have it ready.

Cas nods, leaving his pocketed and leading the way up the creaky staircase.

The windows up here have been painted over, blocking the dim moonlight. Silently cursing, Dean flips on his flashlight, splashing light across the room. Lots of discarded clothes, probably from their victims, a few ransacked bags. No vampires.

They separate to look over the main floor, Cas taking the front rooms while Dean investigates the kitchen and dining rooms. They’re much the same as upstairs. Neater, but there’s nothing in this house besides them.

The wood chipper outside roars to life along with a yard light.

Dean drops out of sight from the window and shoves his flashlight into his pocket. “Cas?” he whisper-yells. “Where are you?”

Silence.

Dean inhales sharply and tightens his grip on his machete before sneaking towards the back door. Keith, their waiter from the diner, yawns as he pushes a disembodied arm through the teeth of the chipper, red fleshy bits spraying out the back end.

Swallowing hard, Dean waits until Keith bends down to grab another arm before sprinting across the yard and tackling him into the bloody dirt.

Keith rolls them a couple times, ending up on top. He wraps his hands around Dean’s neck and squeezes.

Scrabbling at Keith’s arms, Dean shoves a hand between them, forcing Keith’s jaw closed and away. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean catches the glint of a machete swinging through the air.

Dean screws his eyes up tight as blood splashes across his face, listening to the dull thunk of Keith’s head hitting the ground.

Shuddering, Dean pushes the body off and sits up.

“Dean?” Cas demands, pushing the body further away and crouching down next to him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Dean strips off his jacket to use his work shirt to wipe his face. “I had it under control.”

Cas looks at him skeptically, crossing his arms. “That was _not_ under control.”

“It was fine,” Dean spits out, clambering to his feet. “You gonna help me clean up this mess or nag me all night?”

Cas nods tightly, picking up Keith’s body and tossing it into the still running chipper. A fresh shower of blood and tissue sprays across the yard. “Not that this is much cleaner.”

“They watched Fargo too many times, that’s for damn sure,” Dean agrees easily, tossing the bloody shirt and Keith’s head into the chute. Looking around, he shrugs. “Good enough for now. We need to get to Jody. The rest of the nest will be coming for Alex.”

“Sam’s already on it.”

“What?”

“He didn’t want to be left out so he went directly to Jody’s cabin.”

“When the hell did you two decide this?”

“You were otherwise occupied.” Cas’s forehead wrinkles. “You knew Sam would want to help.”

“Yeah, I--” Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head. He has no idea why this is bothering him so much. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

* * *

Someone screams when she steps onto a busy street… somewhere, she can’t be bothered to figure out where at the moment. She breathes for a second, tasting the oil and metal in the air, before turning. There’s something else, something pure that needs defiling.

The angel, when she finds it, is weak. Its wings try to buffet her away from the hiding place in a rundown church on the edge of town. It bleeds grace, dozens of wounds opened by the blades of other angels before it was left to die.

Huddled in a corner, the angel reaches weakly for its own blade. “Demon,” it hisses.

“Angel.” The blade traces a line of fire across her palm when it makes contact. Closing her eyes, she welcomes the pain, the fire, invites it to live within her.

The angel is staring at her when she reopens her eyes. “Abaddon. They told us you were trapped forever.”

“They lied.” Stepping forward, she rips out the angel’s throat in a spray of blood. The grace hurts her eyes, freezes deep into her. Scooping up a discarded bottle from the trash pile nearby, Abaddon floats the grace inside before capping it tightly.

She has no ideas for how to use grace at the moment, but she’s certain it’ll be useful for _something_. It’s been a long time since she had a chance to experiment after all.

* * *

Sam meets them at the turn off for Jody’s cabin, trickles of dried blood on his forehead clearly visible in the Impala’s headlights. He waits impatiently for Dean to stop the car.

Dean’s heart drops when he doesn’t see Jody. “What happened?”

“Jody’s fine, she’s back at the cabin,” Sam starts. “Banged up some, but she’s going to be okay.”

“Sam,” Dean growls, not in the mood for the information trickle. “What happened.”

“They found Jody and Alex. I showed up just as they were leaving. They took Alex, spouting off something about Mama, but they left Jody.”

“Did they say where they were taking Alex?” Cas cuts in.

“Not that I heard. Maybe Jody heard them say something.” Sam glances at the Jeep next to him. “Follow me back to the cabin, we’ll talk to her, see what we should do next. Cas, you wanna ride with me?”

Cas nods gravely, crossing to the passenger side of the Jeep and hoisting himself in. Sam looks like he wants to say something, but he closes his mouth and shakes his head before climbing in.

Cas wanting to ride with Sam is fine. Not a big deal at all. They’re friends, after all. Resolutely ignoring the icy chill of jealousy that runs down his spine, Dean waits for Sam to start up the Jeep and turn around, watching as Cas’s head leans towards Sam. Shaking it off, he glares at the Mark hidden beneath his layers, shoves the car into gear, and follows the road up to the cabin.

Jody already bandaged herself up and looks ready to go when they get there. “You’re taking me with you.”

“Jody--”

“Dean Winchester, you are taking me with you. We’re getting that child back.”

“We’re going to take care of the nest,” Dean insists. “I’m not going to worry about some teenager who gets her kicks luring folks to their deaths.”

“No.” Jody pushes herself up from the small kitchen table with a wince. “We’re not abandoning Alex to them. She’s a good kid, Dean. Yeah, she’s got baggage. But so do we.”

“She’s a monster, Jody.”

“She’s a _survivor_ , Dean. You saw those scars. And I’ve seen your record-- she’s no different. You really think it was all sunshine and lollipops?”

Dean closes his eyes in resignation and nods. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Jody sighs. “Now let’s get going.”

Dean cuts the drive back to O’Neill down to an hour and a half. Sam and Cas close their eyes almost immediately, either taking quick naps or pretending, Dean isn’t sure which.

Jody stares out the window in the backseat, watching the sky slowly brighten as dawn approaches. She glances at the speedometer once over his shoulder, sees the near triple digit number, and resolutely settles back in her seat next to Cas.

“Don’t kill us,” she orders.

Dean snorts, watching the sun come up off to the side. “I know how to handle her.”

“ _She’s_ not what I’m worried about.”

Dean sighs, glancing up to meet her eyes in the rear view mirror. “Get some rest, Jody. It’s going to be fight as soon as we’re there.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t need to sleep that much anyway, and the past month or two has been a lesson in how little he actually needs. Instead, Dean presses a little harder on the gas, tries to diagnose the weird click in the Impala’s comforting purr.

* * *

Sam watches silently while Dean gets Cas set up at the top of the long driveway, handing over a machete and slapping his shoulder roughly. Dean mumbles some instruction that Sam can’t hear, but Cas doesn’t look reassured-- if anything, he looks more worried.

Biting his lip, Sam meets Cas’s eyes, trying to ask what is going on. Cas says nothing, just shakes his head and steps away from the car.

Dean kills the headlights a couple hundred yards away from the house, pulling up near silently.

“Jody, stay behind us,” Sam orders. “We’ll take care of the vampires, you worry about finding Alex and getting her clear.”

Jody nods, silent, tightening her grip before moving away from the car.

Dean kicks in the door before Sam has a chance to get set, barreling in and already swinging his machete.

Sam rushes in, just in time to see the flash of Dean’s machete sever a vampire’s head from its body. Dean runs ahead, leaving Sam and Jody to catch up.

Sam nearly trips over a second corpse blocking the doorway to the rest of the house. Dean bellows something at the front of the house, so he heads that way, machete at the ready.

“Drop it,” a voice says behind him, the muzzle of a shotgun digging into his back.

Carefully, Sam makes a show of putting his blade down on a nearby table and raising his hands. “D--”

“That goes for you too,” the vampire behind him calls towards Dean, slightly louder. “Unless you want to pick up chunks of brother.”

“What?” Dean twists around to face them, putting his back to the vampire he’s been snarling at.

A woman screams in the basement, distracting them all.

Sam dives for his machete on the side table.

At the same time, the vampire jerks the trigger on the shotgun, blasting the space where Sam had been. A few pellets tear into Sam’s leg, but he rips the shotgun out of the vampire’s hands, following it up with his machete. It’s not a clean slice, only severing about half of the vampire’s neck, but it gets the job done.

The vampire falls forward. Sam lets it fall, before jerking the machete back into its neck, cutting the last couple of inches and sending the head rolling.

Sam looks around warily for other vampires, but Dean has his under control. Quickly, Sam searches for any others on this floor before heading down the basement stairs.

“--wanna watch this, honey,” Jody says sadly, followed by a rough sob and another thud.

“Everything alright?” Sam calls, scrambling down the remaining stairs.

Alex cringes away from him, half-turned and sobbing. Jody leans heavily against a support beam, staring at the corpse at her feet.

“Uh, no,” Jody finally responds, her voice shaky. “I wasn’t-- Alex got turned.”

“Hey,” Sam carefully pulls the machete from her hands, pushes her to sit on the stairs. “We can cure her.”

“What?”

“Alex, did you feed?”

Alex shudders, curling in on herself and shaking her head.

“We’re good then.” Sam pats down his pockets, but he doesn’t have anything to collect the vampire’s blood on him. “Alex, I know it sucks. Can you sit tight for a few minutes?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, darting up the stairs. His leg’s going to require medical attention sooner rather than later, but for right now, he can ignore it.

Dean’s in the living room, pinning the vampire to the wall. Sam can’t see everything, and he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, but this… does not look good.

“How many times?” Dean demands. “How many times did you stick your fangs into her?”

“We always told Mama she was more trouble than she was worth.” The vampire laughs. “Spoiled princess, always whining about bringing back dinner and _screaming_ whenever she was dinner.”

Dean pauses for a moment, and Sam doesn’t recognize the look on his face, dark and cruel.

Dean reaches down with the hand not holding the machete and twists something-- a knife maybe?-- and the vampire shouts. “How. Many. Times?”

“I. Don’t. Care,” the vampire pants. “That gonna be how many times you’re gonna make me suck your dick?”

Dean growls, shoving the vampire more firmly against the wall. The machete wobbles, dropping away.

“Dean! End it,” Sam yells, nearly sick. “Let’s go.”

Dean shoves the machete into the vampire’s neck, finally cutting off its head, before spinning around and growling.

“What the hell? We’ve got civilians in the basement and you’re… what? Toying with them?”

“Of course not,” Dean bites out. “I was fine.”

“No, Dean. You aren’t.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, his leg throbbing to remind him that he’s been shot and really does need to sit down. “You’ve been off since you got the Mark. This-- No wonder Cas doesn’t want you hunting on your own. I don’t want you hunting on your own either.”

“Shut up,” Dean snaps. “Where’s Jody and Alex?”

“Oh, _now_ you’re worried about them. In the basement. They turned Alex, but she hasn’t fed yet. We need to get that cure cooking before she loses control.”

“And Jody?” Dean sags, finally losing some of the tension. “How’s she?”

“She’s been better. But I don’t think she’s in any danger as long as we take care of Alex.” Looking at Dean, Sam makes a snap decision. “Hand over the machete.”

“Fuck no.”

Sam inhales sharply, blowing it out in a frustrated mess. “You’re in no shape to be hunting right now.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dean snaps, pushing past Sam. “It’s just adrenaline.”

If Dean’s fine, it’s the ‘fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and exhausted’ kind of fine. Pulling out his phone, he sends a quick text to Cas to let him know that they’re alive and mostly okay before limping after Dean.

* * *

_> > Vamps dead. Alex turned. Working on cure_

Castiel looks at the headless corpse at his feet-- a stray or a straggler, he’s not sure, but very definitely a vampire-- and back at his phone. “You missed one,” he mutters before shoving it back in his pocket and heading towards the house.

Without the distraction of combat, it’s a lot easier to worry. Fact: Dean Winchester has been cursed with the Mark of Cain. Fact: that, in conjunction with the First Blade has tainted Dean enough that he reads as demonic to the warding of the Bunker. Fact: Castiel has no idea how to fix either of these problems.

Dean’s soul is twisting, the First Blade accelerating changes forced by the Mark

On purpose or not, when Crowley manipulated Dean into taking the Mark, he also set up interference in their bond. Castiel thought he’d felt it when fighting the rougarou, but today cemented it. Even with an angelic bond drawing Dean toward humanity, eventually, the Mark will twist his soul into a demon. Again.

Sam is leaning heavily against the door frame when Castiel reaches the house, wincing when he puts weight on one of his legs. Glancing down, Castiel sees the leg of his pants soaked in blood.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hey, Cas.” Sam sighs. “Can you help Dean get Alex out to the cars?”

“In a minute,” Castiel says, frowning. He doesn’t have much grace left, but letting Sam bleed when he can do something about it--

“Don’t bother, Cas. It hurts, and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, but it was bird shot. I’ll be fine.” Sam limps away from the house.

Castiel sighs, but slips past Sam anyway. He’s right, but that doesn’t help with the guilt.

Dean looks healthy enough, pulling out a chair for Jody with one hand while he supports Alex with the other. “Dammit, Jody. Sit down. Give us ten fucking minutes before you go off.”

Jody sees Castiel first and waves a hand at Dean. “Tell him. I had it under control.”

“I’m sure you did,” Castiel says slowly. “But I’m not entirely certain what _it_ was.”

“Getting Alex upstairs.” Dean glances around the kitchen before shrugging. “There’s nothing here worth keeping. Let’s get going. We can do the cure at Jody’s.”

The drive north is mostly silent. Exhaustion and pain rolls off Jody and Sam in waves, while Alex just trembles with the suppressed urge to feed, groaning whenever they hit a bump in the road. But eventually, Dean parks next to Jody’s truck next to the small cabin in the woods, and gets everyone inside.

Castiel waits outside, watching the wild life surrounding the cabin slowly return while the others start Alex on the cure.

Dean carries the first aid kit and Sam’s bag back out a few minutes later. Tossing them into the trunk, he leans against the car next to Castiel. “Wanna tell me what’s up with you?”

Shrugging, Castiel tilts his head. “I can still feel it, you know. Your soul.”

“Okay, and?”

“The Mark is taking over,” he says quietly. “Not all the time, but--”

“It burns, sometimes. I don’t know why,” Dean admits quietly. “It’s worse when I’m not hunting.”

Blowing out a breath, Castiel nods, holding out his hand. Dean pauses for a brief second before taking it, intertwining their fingers and kissing the back of Castiel’s hand. “We can fix this.”

“It’s not broken, Cas.”

“No one has ever found a way to defeat Cain, Dean. Since the dawn of humanity. The only reason he doesn’t control Hell is because he doesn’t want it. He never has.”

“Awesome. We’ll worry about it later,” Dean says carelessly. “Someone has to take out Abaddon, and with the archangels dead or in the Cage and the angels exiled to Earth, I don’t see anyone else stepping up to the plate.”

“I’m aware your reasoning, Dean. However, we’ve ignored consequences before and look where that got us.”

Dean swallows, shakes his head. “Abaddon is our fault.”

Castiel can’t, won’t, watch Dean destroy himself for this. Grimacing, he pushes himself away from the car and releases Dean’s hand. “In that case, I need to go take care of some things. So when this _is_ broken, we’ll be prepared.”

“Cas--”

“Dean, I can’t do this with you. I already watched Cain nearly destroy the world with his knights. I won’t watch you do the same.”

“What the hell does ‘take care of things’ mean?” Dean snarls.

Castiel steps away. “When you’re ready to listen, have Sam call.” He pauses for a brief moment, carefully committing Dean to memory before taking flight.


	27. Chapter 27

“Any change?” Henry asks, as Sam walks down the stairs.

Sam shrugs, dropping his bag with an exhausted thump onto the map table. “Not really. He took off again. Didn’t even tell me where he was going.”

“Minnesota again,” Kevin says confidently. “Something’s killing eating competition participants.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Sam slides into one the chairs around the table and lays his head on his folded arms.

“It’s the only hunt within a day’s drive that he’s not already taken care of.”

“And?” Sam asks suspiciously.

“And… I hacked his phone’s GPS.” Kevin shrugs. “I can’t get anything new out of the demon tablet right now and at least computers are related to English.”

“Fair enough,” Sam says, pushing himself away from the table. “Nothing new on Abaddon either?”

“Those special demons of hers-- the shedim?-- are all over the place,” Henry says. “But they’re moving too fast to get hunters on them. And they’ll be a pain even if we do track them down.”

“You found out more about them?” Sam holds up a hand. “Wait. Is this anything that can’t wait for me to clean up and eat something? Dean’s not real big on stopping right now.”

Henry shakes his head. “Go. I can smell the ghoul from here.”

Sam nods, grabs his bag and disappears into the rest of the Bunker.

Forty-five minutes later, he’s in the kitchen with a sandwich. Closing his eyes for a long moment, he sighs. “Okay. What’s up with the shedim?”

“They’re not standard demons,” Henry says, setting a glass of juice in front of Sam before sliding onto the stool across from him. “They’re more powerful in a lot of ways, but also have more, different, limitations.”

“What does that mean?”

“Lore says that even Lucifer was scared of these things, they’re literally the most evil things God ever created.” Henry snorts. “I’m not sure they can be exorcised-- they come with their own bodies.”

Sam sighs again. “Super demons that can’t be exorcised. Awesome. Any good news?”

“Yes,” Kevin cuts in. “Traps should work and they can’t possess you.”

Grimacing, Sam leans against the wall. “Wasn’t really something I was worried about until you said something.”

“Figured you’d rather know.” Kevin shrugs. “We’ll keep searching, but there’s not much to go off of.”

“These guys have been hidden for a long time,” Henry adds. “My ancient Hebrew is rusty, and Kevin doesn’t--”

“It’s on the list,” Kevin cuts Henry off, exasperated. “I’m more worried about teaching myself languages spoken by people still alive.”

Sam slouches, letting them bicker while he eats. It’s not that he’s not happy they’re getting along, or that Henry’s gotten over his obsession with rebuilding the Men of Letters, he’s just too tired to keep up with their long standing arguments.

“Any progress on the wards?” Sam cuts them off before they can get too deep. “Or what the hell is going on with that Mark?”

“The Mark of Cain is old,” Henry says. “Very old. Everyone thought it was just a myth.”

“Awesome.” Sam reaches up, rubs his forehead. “So it’s been over a month, we have nothing to help Dean, and the shedim are going to murder us all. Did I miss anything?”

“Your manners?” Henry snarks. “No need to take the predicament Dean got himself into out on us. You’re my grandsons, and I’m willing to help out, but if you start to be a brat, I will leave.”

“Right. Sorry.” Sam bites his lip, looking down at his empty plate. “I’m, uh, gonna go take a nap. Then we’ll get back to it.”

He gets most of the way back to his room before everything he’s been avoiding slams into him.

Sinking to the floor outside his room, Sam takes a series of deep breaths, trying to keep the simmering panic at bay. There’s no _reason_ to panic-- Dean isn’t out of control, not yet-- but that knowledge doesn’t help much. Not when Dean has been driving around with a warning from Abaddon carved into the Impala’s door panel for over a month and hasn’t said a word about fixing it since the night it happened.

He gives himself five minutes to huddle in a ball, to admit that he doesn’t know how to deal with this and even if he did, there’s no one he trusts to help him with it. Cas is off doing… something… with the angels again and isn’t answering his phone. Henry and Kevin are clueless. Charlie is still off on her adventure…

He’s alone. Which has _never_ meant good things for his decision making.

Gritting his teeth, Sam pushes himself up and into his room. Staring at the pile of books on his bedside table, he shakes his head and pulls his boots off. Sleep. Then figuring out the next step.

* * *

Crowley is already at the bar chatting amicably with Georgia and Donnie when Dean gets there. He doesn’t know why-- they didn’t have anything set up-- but company that doesn’t watch his every move like he’s going to explode doesn’t sound too bad.

“Hey, man,” Donnie waves him over, passing him a beer. “It’s been a few weeks. Everything okay at home?”

Dean snorts. “Everything’s fine. Was busy with a few jobs.”

“If you say so.” Donnie raises an eyebrow skeptically, but doesn’t say anything to contradict him. “How’s your brother doing? Haven’t seen him since the thing.”

Dean shrugs, taking a long pull from his beer. “Worried about me. Like normal.” Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Georgia and Crowley shaking hands, Crowley palming something into his pocket. “Aw, Crowley, c’mon man, no deals with the locals…”

Pulling himself up to his full height, Crowley looks over scornfully. “All we’ve ever discussed is deals for souls. And, as lovely as Miss Georgia is, I have no interest in her soul at this time.” He bows theatrically, like that’s going to make Dean trust him.

“You couldn’t afford it even if I was willing to sell.” Georgia cackles. “What he wanted was well within my ability to provide on this earthly plane. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“I figured you’d be spending time with Moose and Feathers still. Running around saving the day.”

“Shut it.” Dean sighs, finishes his beer. He doesn’t know why he’s here instead of heading towards Minnesota really. But the Mark burned less when he pointed the car towards Smith Center and right now, he’ll do just about anything to keep it appeased.

“Sammy doesn’t know where you are,” Crowley says slowly, almost surprised. “Does Cas? I’m sure he doesn’t approve of you hanging out with the likes of me.”

“Cas is doing his own thing.” He’s sure Crowley-- hell, probably Donnie and Georgia too-- can translate that. Not that it fucking matters. Crowley can search for Cas all he wants and won’t have any more luck than Dean. “Even if he wasn’t, he ain’t got to room to talk.”

Dean’s phone rings and he glances down at it, half-expecting to see Cas’s number staring back up at him. It’s Sam though. Sighing, he picks it up. “What, Sam?”

“I just wanted to check on how you were doing.”

“You just saw me like an hour ago,” Dean grouches, slumping to the far corner where he might be able to have a conversation without the others interfering. “Not much trouble I can get up to on the highway. Want me to call after I take a piss too?”

“No,” Sam says. “Jesus. Can’t I just be worried about you?”

“No. I’m a cockroach, you know that.”

“Disgusting and squishable? Yeah, I can see that.”

“But I always come out on top. Even in the face of armageddon.” Dean pauses for a moment, wincing as a jolt of pain rides up his arm. “What can I do for you?”

Sam grunts. “I don’t like you hunting alone.”

“You were exhausted and I don’t need a babysitter.”

“And what happens when you get thrown into a tree? You know what, never mind. Do whatever in the fuck you want.” Sam hangs up in a huff.

Pocketing his phone, Dean glares down at his arm before heading back to the bar.

“You here for the night, Dean, or are you moving on?” Donnie asks, hand poised over the beer pull.

There’s a monster east of Minneapolis waiting for him to gank it, a demon queen waiting for him to murder her, and… well, there’s _not_ an angel waiting for him to come home anymore, which really answers that, doesn’t it?

“One more round. Then I need to head out,” he says, quirking a small smile. “Places to be by morning. Georgia knows how it is.”

“I know you push yourself too hard.” Georgia reaches over and pushes his shoulder. “And whatever you’re running from by hunting isn’t going to disappear while you kill the last monster.”

Mood suddenly bleak, Dean looks into the beer Donnie sets in front of him, staring at the tiny bubbles that float up. “Gotta take care of them anyway,” he finally says. “They’re not gonna disappear just because I’m shit.”

She frowns, looking at her own glass, but doesn’t say anything else.

Eventually, Donnie gets pulled away to deal with another crowd of folks, Crowley disappears into the back-- Dean suspects he’s shooting up-- and Georgia starts up a pool game with a trucker passing through. Dean pulls a couple of twenties from his wallet, tosses them on the bar, and slips away. He’s not in any shape to be around people.

* * *

Feather’s text shines up from his phone, days old and still waiting for a response. It’s too deliberate to be a mistake, which means Cas wanted him to know that he was leaving Dean, that the Mark was twisting Dean’s soul around.

He’d planned to ignore it-- the text tells him nothing that Crowley couldn’t already guess-- but looking at Dean in a shabby bar, he finds he can’t.

Pocketing the vial of blood Georgia slips him in exchange for a couple black cat bones, Crowley takes advantage of the momentary distraction to text Cas before shoving his phone into his pocket. The smooth glass of the vial slips smoothly past his fingertips, before he forces himself to ignore it.

There’s time enough for that later. First, he needs to regain control of Dean. Letting him slip away after Sinclair was a mistake, one he didn’t worry about too much at the time-- Cas was with him and could bring him to heel at any time-- but now, Crowley is the only one who might be able to leash Dean.

Nodding at Donnie, Crowley slides off his stool, the siren call of Georgia’s blood calling to him.

Some transitions are harder than others, and this one is particularly hard. Stepping from the hallway of the bar into one of the dark towers of Hell makes him stagger, leaning against a nearby wall until he has his equilibrium back.

“Your highness?” a demon asks timidly, standing a few feet away, eyes averted. “We were instructed to bring you to the Duke when you arrived--”

Crowley snarls, bounding forward and pressing the demon into the wall. “Who dares claim my title?”

“Barthamus,” the demon stammers.

The little pisstoad. Demanding that Crowley come before him like some _inferior_.

Ripping out the demon’s throat in a single swift motion, Crowley licks away the blood on his hand. It buzzes as it enters him, soothing parts of him he hadn’t realized were uncomfortable and irritating others. Again and again, he dips his hand into the blood, regaining the power he had allowed to wither away.

Feelings. What a ridiculous concept.

Barthamus sprawls across the throne of the crossroads, every inch a bored and petulant monarch, watching lesser demons whine about equal distribution of souls. He looks as bored as Crowley ever felt, a slight solace that will save his life. Glaring, Crowley waves a hand and sends the court elsewhere-- where Abaddon can pick them off as a distraction-- before stepping forward.

Crowley allows his true form to eclipse his meat suit, strong antlers springing forth while gaping wounds, rotting from the inside out, appear. Everything Hell has thrown at him, he has turned into strength.

Barthamus’ true form is a pale imitation. He can twist himself into something dangerous, but nothing he ever does can change who he really is. Or who the rack changed him to: a boot licking toad with delusions of grandeur, talented enough to be a threat, too stupid to be taken seriously.

“Your highness, I…” Barthamus stammers out, nearly falling off the throne as he scrambles to sit up.

“We’ll deal with my sudden, not at all unexpected, return from the dead later. I need the latest soul projections.” When Bart doesn’t move, Crowley gestures and tears him off the throne. “Now!”

Bart scrambles from the room, fleeing ahead of whatever torments Crowley might loose on him. Crowley snorts and approaches the throne and all the hidden cabinets he’d filled over the long centuries with bits of lore and witchcraft. This has always been the safest place in Hell-- even if he’d been able to reach his throne before abandoning it, he would have left these treasures there.

The throne opens up to him like a lover, recognizing its ruler. The seat shifts, compartments appear-- Before it can complete its transformation, he halts it, grabbing the pieces he came for and sending it back to whatever that fool thinks the throne should look like.

The thrones know, they _always_ know, who the mantle holder is. Even if they never claim the throne.

The ferret comes running back in, a sheaf of papers in hand, his eyes alight with curiosity. Bart isn’t a danger, to his plans, not yet, but he’s had too much freedom since Crowley faked his death. That will need to change.

Rolling his eyes and taking the papers, he watches Bart waver between reclaiming the throne and standing before it as he’s been trained to do. “This will do nicely. Bart? _Stay off my throne_.” Crowley snaps his fingers, reappears on Earth a few minutes after he left.

The bar is suddenly busy and Dean gone, when he reemerges. Donnie is pouring drinks while Georgia schools truckers at pool, but Dean is… missing.

Frowning, Crowley heads outside, searching for Dean.

Perched on a ridge overlooking the Cage, Abaddon glares and sends forth a stream of fire. The thorns surrounding it crisp and burn away, clearing a short lived path. She darts forward, muscling through the rapidly regrowing defenses until she can’t get any further. Sprinkling the angel grace ahead of her, she forces herself to wait for something, _anything_ , to happen.

The ground heaves under her feet, throwing her backwards, away from the Cage.

The screaming from inside the Cage momentarily dies for the space of a couple of heartbeats before it redoubles. No one she asks can tell her who is torturing who inside, and they might switch off for anyone can tell.

Growling, she flings herself to the sky in her disappointment. Chasing demons across the plains between the towers is a distraction. She knows it’s a distraction even as she does it, swooping from above to burn them to ash, trampling them into the gray mud.

An ill-timed banking turn sends her through the outer wall of one of the towers, bathing the entire area in the stench of rotting blood. Transforming, she hunts down the hole and pushes through it, wandering lightless hallways, searching for this place’s master.

Everything is as it should be, but something feels off. Something dripping from above-- not blood or ichor, something else. It takes a very long time to follow the trail to its source.

The throne room of the Pit is empty except for those strung up as wall decorations, and they scarcely count as demons any longer. She notes the designs, tries to determine why they’re there. There is no duke of the Pit now, the only heir human, on Earth and ineligible. The throne should have reverted. It _all_ should have reverted.

Something moves near the walls, covered in ash and ichor, crawling towards her and the empty throne. Small and mewling, eager for death. Waving a hand, she tosses it back to the torture masters that must be somewhere in the underbelly of this cave before taking flight again.

The Pit is empty. The Pit has not accepted a new master. _Something has gone wrong_.

Deep in the recesses of her mind, she wonders what that means for the other thrones. If they are also empty, merely biding their time until their heir comes to claim them.

Pushing it away, she looks towards the other towers, flicking her tongue out to taste the air.

_Crowley_.

Where is Meg that Crowley has been allowed to enter Hell freely?

Snorting, Abaddon returns to her throne room, ransacking her holdings for a distraction of her own. For Crowley or the humans he works with, she doesn’t care which.

Her meat suit holds the answer, a tiny spell, nearly meaningless, that with a slight alteration, will provide the perfect toy.

Forcing the entirety of herself into her meat suit is a chore. Taking a deep breath, she uses nimble fingers to perform the spell, painting the ash of angel feathers across a door frame and stepping through.

* * *

Someone knocks on the entrance to the Bunker. Kevin glances at the stairs from where he’s working in the library before shaking his head. Everyone who knows about the Bunker also wouldn’t knock. Translating this part of the demon tablet-- the only mention of the shedim they’ve found-- is more important than letting Henry in.

A few minutes later, the knocking has turned into pounding.

Irritated, Kevin starts for the stairs, fully ending to give whoever it is a piece of his mind, before he thinks better of it. It doesn’t sound right. Combined with the brief spike of demonic activity on the meters fifteen minutes ago? It’s not worth risking opening the door to some demon.

(He’d decided it was probably Dean picking up the First Blade to murder some creature, which is so common it’s not worth letting Sam or Cas know anymore.)

Frowning, he sends Sam a text to get his ass up here.

Sam comes running in as just the pounding resumes, this time accompanied by indistinct shouting.

“Any ideas?” Kevin asks dryly.

Sam raises an eyebrow, smoothly pulling his pistol from the back of his jeans. “Stay here. Go into lock down if something happens.”

“Must protect the prophet, as useless as he might be, at all costs.”

“You know I’m right-- that’s why you called me. It’s our job to protect you, Kev.” Taking a deep breath, Sam starts up the short corridor to the outer door.

“Protect. Right.” Kevin rolls his eyes, waiting impatiently behind the iron door. Sam and Dean have done a better job than the angels ever did, but their settings are apparently utter indifference to his well-being or suffocating over-protectiveness. There is no in-between.

“Hey, Kev?” Sam calls down after a couple minutes. “Can you bring, uh… _all_ the testing gear up here?”

“Why?” Frowning, Kevin looks up at the landing.

“Start with the basics, we’ll work our way from there.”

“Great job avoiding the question,” Kevin mutters, grabbing to box of salt, iron, silver, and holy water that lives under the stairs now. It should be enough to get them through if they’re just testing someone.

* * *

Kevin kicks the front door a couple times, his hands full, to get Sam to open it.

He’s not sure what he expected when Sam opens the door, but some guy who got lost from the local Ren Faire is not it. They don’t get a lot of the local Amish population through here, but he would fit right in. “What’s up with Will Turner?”

Ignoring him, Sam shakes his head, brow furrowed. “Gavin, let me see your arm.” He pulls up Gavin’s sleeve and starts rubbing silver and iron coins on it.

“Sir, I beg your pardon?” Gavin starts to pull his arm back, but Sam holds it tightly. “Is this how you greet expected guests here?” His accent is strange, almost Scottish, but not precisely. Not modern Scottish anyway.

Kevin looks over at Sam, his eyes wide, before shaking his head. “We weren’t expecting company. And anyone dressed like you? Doesn’t come around looking for us anyway.”

“Ow!” Gavin yelps, yanking his hand back, a streak of blood trailing across the back. Sam wipes the blade of a knife off on his jeans. “I simply followed the instructions she gave me to come to this building and knock.”

“Who?” Sam asks.

“She didn’t give her name. She marched into my lodgings last night, demanded I come with her lest I die, and then she…” Gavin trails off. “It must be witchcraft, because this is no corner of Scotland I’ve ever heard tale of.”

“Witchcraft, huh.” Kevin swallows and glances over at Sam. “What did she look like?”

“Tall, red hair. Wearing trousers like a man, indecently tight.”

“Charlie?” Kevin asks with a frown. But why would she pull some random guy from… “What year do you think it is?”

“1723. What do you mean I _think_ it is?”

“Not Charlie,” Sam says definitively, dropping everything back into the box. “Abaddon.”

“Yeah, almost has to be,” Kevin agrees, setting the box on the ground. “But why?”

“Did she say anything else?” Sam asks, turning to face Gavin.

“To give my father her regards. Which is impossible since I’m _not_ dead, and he has been for several months now.”

“Gavin… who’s your father?”

“The drunken bastard of a tailor Fergus MacLeod,” Gavin spits. “May the Almighty have mercy on his soul.”

Sam goes white.

“Sam?”

“You’ve heard of him, I see.” Gavin snorts. “He would be so proud that his exploits are so well known.”

“Fuck,” Sam breathes out, staring at Gavin. “I gotta make a couple calls. Can you get Gavin inside and some lunch or whatever? I uh--” He shakes his head sharply. “Yeah, I gotta make a couple calls.”

“Sam, what’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you later. I hope I’m wrong anyway.”

“Will someone please tell me what is going on?” Gavin demands. “I’ve been more than patient, and I need to board my ship by morning tide.”

“Yeah, you’re going to miss that,” Kevin says, pulling the door open and shepherding Gavin through. “By about two hundred and ninety years.”

“ _Pardon?_ ”

“Welcome to America, 2013.” Sighing, Kevin looks at the map room and library, still scattered with research from half a dozen hunts, in despair. It all needs to be put away before they can get Gavin back to when he came from. And that’s not even starting including figuring out the spell and figuring out if any of them are strong enough to cast it and… “I’d apologize for the mess, but it almost always looks like this.” Kevin twists around to check on Gavin when he doesn’t hear him.

Gavin stands in the doorway between the map room and library, staring at amazement at… something. “Is this a church then? Or a nobleman’s house?”

“What?” Kevin peeks in, but nothing’s changed since he went upstairs. “It’s just the library, dude. Not even the biggest collection of books in this place, just the most used.”

“There are more?” Gavin turns, looking rather pale. “How do you know my father if you have all this?”

“Sam knows him,” Kevin says quickly. “Not me.” Not by that name anyway, although Kevin can’t think of anyone old enough to be Gavin’s dad either.

Gavin looks like he’s going to fall over in shock. Kevin huffs and drags him into the kitchen, where things are less likely to overwhelm him. He starts to put together yet another pot of coffee before deciding that the last thing Gavin needs is more caffeine. Pulling open the fridge, he frowns at the options-- milk on its last legs or beer-- before looking over. “Beer or water? We have some whiskey around here somewhere too, but I’m not sure how it’s going to compare.”

“Beer, if you please.”

“Sure thing.” Twisting the cap off, Kevin slides the bottle across the table before making a couple of sandwiches. “Did Abaddon-- the red head-- say anything else before dropping you off?”

“A nursery rhyme about pigs.” Gavin takes a long pull of his beer, wrinkling his nose. Sighing, he shakes his head. “I’m afraid she didn’t say much beyond that, just giving my father her regards and something about being an ‘adequate’ distraction.”

“For who is the question.” Kevin frowns, glances out into the hallway.

* * *

“Damnit, Cas, pick up,” Sam mutters, pacing impatiently outside. His shirt sticks to him in the heat, gluing itself to his back, as he hangs up and and immediately redials. He’s not sure Cas will be able to help, but he’ll have a lot better line on Crowley than Sam does. And if not, he’ll have a better idea of just how fucked the world is.

Because they needed another potentially world ending catastrophe on their hands.

Hanging up yet again, Sam forces himself to take a couple of deep breaths. This isn’t outside of containment yet. If they can get Gavin back to Scotland, back to 1723, back onto the _Star_ , then they’ll be fine. Easy peasy.

Dean picks up after only a couple rings, his voice rough. “What?”

“I need you back here,” Sam barks. “Now.”

“I’m in the middle of a hunt, Sam. I can’t just walk.”

“You’re walking away on this one. Crowley’s son just showed up at our front door,” Sam hisses. “Anything short of Lucifer tap dancing his way out of the goddamned Cage can fucking wait.”

“What the fuck, Sam?” Rustles on the other end of the phone, the sound of Dean drinking something. Sam hopes it’s water, but he doesn’t really care. “What the hell do you mean Crowley’s son?”

“I mean, Gavin MacLeod, son of Fergus Rodrick MacLeod, just got dropped off at the front door of our top secret bunker by fucking _Abaddon_.”

“Oh.” Dean pauses for a moment, then, “Oh, _shit_. Have you told Crowley?”

“No! For one thing, I don’t have his number and for a second, this happened ten minutes ago. I’ve barely had time to call you and Cas.” It’s a mistake to mention Cas, Dean’s been touchy about him for weeks, but it’s too late now.

“Sounds like you’re set then. Cas has Crowley’s number, and he can get in the Bunker.”

“Yeah, if Cas was answering the fucking phone.” Sam snorts, glaring at the corn fields surrounding him. “He’s not. You are. More than that, you’re my brother and I want you to get your ass here to back me up.” He sighs. “Gavin’s human, or near enough. I’m more worried about what’s going to happen if he doesn’t die on schedule than what he can do to me.”

“What do you--” Dean stops dead. “Bobby.”

“Yeah. _Bobby_. And the ghost that doesn’t exist to get summoned to get dirt on Crowley to blackmail him into tearing up the contract.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes. “Okay. See if you can get another hunter lined up to take this job, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Text me the info. Thanks, Dean.” Sam lets Dean end the call before turning back to the Bunker. He’ll need to check with Henry and Kevin for which hunters are free.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're sensitive to animal harm, and it includes hellhounds, see end notes, please

Castiel waits in the sanctuary of Hannah’s church, watching the sun sink through the stained glass. It is very beautiful in here, she does have that at least.

She comes up behind him, quietly, sliding into the pew next to him. “You shouldn’t be here Castiel.”

He snorts, twisting around to look at her. Her vessel looks well, Hannah’s grace glowing under his dark skin. “Because your flock is abusing their vessels?”

“Because Metatron put a bounty on your head.”

He pushes to his feet, staring down at her. “What does he even have to offer?”

“Castiel,” Hannah starts, “He’s claiming he can bring us all home. We can’t--”

Frowning, Castiel turns to look at the altar painted gold by the sunset. “And you believe him?” The sanctuary is empty around them, the congregants and angels left hours ago. He doesn’t agree with most of Hannah’s choices here, but by requiring the angels of her faction to actually use their grace towards bettering the world around them, she’s accomplished more good than any of the other factions.

“No, of course, I don’t. But...” Hannah trails off. “Our father has abandoned us, allowed us to be cast from our home. It is difficult to convince the others that Metatron is not a viable replacement.”

“They think he’s a _replacement_?” Castiel asks in horrified disbelief. “He disappeared the same time our father did, and for much the same reason! It’s not even clear where he’s been hiding for the last dozen centuries.”

“As opposed to Bartholomew and his ilk? Don’t think they won’t track you here, and if they don’t, Malachi will. You have brought destruction to us, Castiel.” Hannah shakes her head, dark hair falling into bleak eyes. “We’re too few to survive a confrontation. I don’t trust Metatron, but he _is_ returning angels to Heaven, which is better than Bartholomew’s fascism or Malachi’s chaos, no matter what he asks in return.”

“I can’t--”

“You can, and you will,” comes a voice behind them.

Spinning around, Castiel spots the other angel. His vessel is tall-- at least as tall as Sam-- with dirty blonde hair. “Gadreel.” His blade drops into his hand almost without thought.

“Castiel.” Gadreel nods. “Or is it Cas? Samuel was never quite clear.”

“What are you doing here,” Hannah demands from next to him. “I told you to not return.”

“Yes. You did. But when the great Castiel arrives to make his plea, X and I pay attention. After all, we wouldn’t want you to fall in with the wrong crowd.”

“Hannah, what is he talking about?” Castiel takes an unconscious step back, towards the walls of the church, before forcing himself to stop.

“As I said, even if Metatron is not a viable replacement, many angels view him as the only way back home.” Hannah turns to look at him, biting her lip. “We’re doing the best we can here-- performing miracles that won’t draw attention to us. But we cannot siphon off their souls forever. We need a way home, to Heaven. So the weakest can return to Heaven and their duties.”

“When he’s the only one who can let you in?” Castiel waves a hand towards Gadreel. “He spent millennia locked up for dereliction of his duties!”

“So did you, Castiel,” Hannah points out darkly. “In cells near each other. Gadreel at least recognizes that he did wrong. Do you?”

“Saving humanity from the wrath of Heaven is never something I will regret, even though others remember more of those battles than I do.”

“I’m not a loyalist, Castiel.” Gadreel stands awkwardly at the back of the church. “I _longed_ for freedom. You-- you had it! You had everything I wanted, and you kept coming back! You were freed, returned to your flight, and then years or decades later, you would appear again, ranting and screaming about the latest campaign.”

“That was the--”

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t even the first time since you met Dean Winchester.”

Castiel sags, racking his memory for any recollection of Heaven’s prison prior to last winter. “I don’t--”

“I know,” Hannah says soothingly. “But you see why I will accept Gadreel’s promises of Heaven over your promise of _nothing_.”

“Hannah--”

“I’m sorry, Castiel. I must do what is best for my flock.”

“Of course,” he says softly. There’s no persuading her with Gadreel here, and possibly even if he isn’t. Whatever his game is, Metatron is playing it very well.

The angels will return to Heaven, Metatron with at the head as their savior. Those who do not turn to him, allow him to lead, will wither and fall.

“Hannah, be careful. Humanity has a saying about gifts unasked for,” Castiel says finally.

“They do.” Gadreel moves suddenly, half flying to push Castiel face first into the wall. He captures one wrist and jerks it up, towards the center of his back. “Every one of which X is acquainted with. I shall return later with instructions, Hannah. Be prepared.”

Castiel doesn’t have a chance to cry out before Gadreel flies them both out of the church.

* * *

“My _what_? That’s not possible,” Crowley repeats. “The boy is dead, and even if he wasn’t, we _loathed_ each other. What is the point?”

“Crowley--” Dean sighs over the phone. “Just get here. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for three fucking days.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“We’re not fucking babysitters. Get here, pick up your goddamn kid, deal with him.”

“And how do you propose I do that?” Crowley snaps, glancing at the half-drawn spell work on the table. “Take him out for pizza and a baseball game before snapping his neck?”

“You can probably skip that last bit. Look, he’s gotta go back to 1723 or whatever, but until we figure out how, he’s your responsibility.”

“That doesn’t--” He doesn’t know why he’s pretending this isn’t what he wants. Mostly because it’s a rare thing these days to be on the receiving end of Dean Winchester pleading.

He can hear the smirk in Dean’s voice, knowing he’s won. “Sam’s got the kid at the Bunker, but I’m at the motel in Red Cloud. See you soon.”

Crowley ruthlessly strangles the part of him that wants to snap his fingers and be there. It would be quicker, yes, but also more likely to draw the attention of Abaddon’s shedim and Meg. What will getting there instantly accomplish anyway? Hasten the reminder of his failure as a human?

Frowning, he clears away the chalk and repacks his bag. He whistles for Juliet and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

She wouldn’t-- Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, cursing at the necessity. He must be skating the line to human a lot closer than he realized.

Dropping his bag on the ground next to the SUV, he snatches out a piece of chalk. Putting together a location spell takes no time, even with worry plucking at him. Complete, the spell pulls him east.

Leaving his belongings behind, Crowley abandons his good sense and rushes towards Juliet, stepping from shadow to shadow. He’s making himself a target, but Juliet is more important. She’s well trained-- the only reason she wouldn’t come when called is if she _can’t_.

And there’s precious little that can stop a hellhound.

The barn is abandoned, the vines covering it slowly pulling it down. The roof is missing most of its shingles, gaping holes leaving it open to the elements. And _much_ further away than Juliet would normally range.

Frowning, Crowley manages to check his headlong rush before jumping inside the building, but only barely. He walks around the barn, trampling down weeds and tangled vines-- Virginia creeper and wild grapes mostly, with some poison ivy just to make things interesting for anyone looking to harvest the wood-- trying to figure out why Juliet would even enter it.

“Juliet?” he calls softly through an empty doorway.

A quiet, pained whine answers him.

Abandoning caution, Crowley pushes into the barn, staying near the sides and away from the center. Juliet sprawls on the ground at the back of the barn, trapped by a broken bit of farm equipment.

“Hush, girl,” Crowley orders, checking the area around her for traps or any sign of who’s behind this. He can’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean--

He stops dead. The only way he’s entered a trap is if it surrounds the whole building. “Meg.”

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” she calls down.

Turning, Crowley finds her, perched in the loft above the door he came through. “I should have known.”

“Yes, you really should have. I wonder why you didn’t.” Casually, she jumps down-- a fifteen foot drop-- and leans against one of the support poles. “I couldn’t figure out how you were able to ignore me back in Kansas City. I can control all demons after all. Some take more effort than others, but all of them.”

“You can’t control Abaddon,” he starts.

“I don’t _want_ to control her. She’s doing exactly what she wants to do. Chaos and destruction, it’s her entire reason for being. And far be it for me to keep her from it.” Meg smirks, pushing blonde hair back over her shoulder. “You though, you’re not. You’re not doing what you want, you’re not acting like a demon, and the ring doesn’t control you like one.”

Crowley ignores both the implied question and Meg, strolling over to where Juliet is trapped and inspecting the iron teeth of the harvester. Showing Meg his back is a risk, but he doesn’t have much choice. Not if Juliet’s been trapped for as long as he thinks.

They’re buried in her side, pushed through with the tips inches deep into the dirt. Juliet growls when the teeth shift, almost drowning out Meg’s prattling. Meg coated them in salt, just be make it more obvious that this was meant to maim before it killed. Crowley grits his teeth before nodding.

“You can’t possibly believe that chaos and destruction will free Lucifer. What happened to picking a cause and serving it?”

“My cause lost,” Meg says grimly. “He’s trapped with Michael, and if the noises coming from the Cage are any indication, they’re hatefucking each other into eternity.”

“And you think Abaddon can let him out? You’re even stupider than I thought.”

“No, I don’t. But I can play the long game too, Crowley. I learned from the best.” She gestures and the teeth digging into Juliet grind in even further. “I’ll leave you and your dog to it then. You know how it is, places to destroy, people to ruin.” Raising a hand, she drops it.

An invisible hand crushes him to the ground, flattening him.

By the time he’s able to stand up, Meg’s gone. In her place is the muffling effect of a well done devil’s trap. He should have expected this, not walked into an obvious trap. Pushing himself upright, Crowley stumbles over to the tractor. The iron and steel burn his hands but he forces himself to drag them free of Juliet’s flank.

Juliet scrambles free before collapsing with a whine next to him. Petting her carefully, Crowley waits for his hands to heal and tries to figure out how to get out of here.

Prowling around the inner edge of the trap, Crowley tries to find a weak point, but the trap is huge, requiring a proportional amount of force to break the earth beneath it-- enough that it will shower both him and Juliet in salt and iron and whatever else Meg stocked the building with before setting it up as a trap. He could survive it, he can survive anything. Juliet…

It says more than he’s comfortable with that leaving here without her isn’t acceptable. That he’s in this position because he wouldn’t leave without her, that he was so easily read by those who should never be able to do so.

Fuck.

Pulling his phone out, he dials without thinking about it.

“Crowley, where the hell are you?” Dean barks.

“Trapped.” He impotently kicks one of the outer walls and listens to the crash as another board falls from the roof. “So either deal with the boy yourself or get here and let me out.”

“If you were stupid enough to get in another hunter’s crosshairs, it’s not my problem.”

“Love you too, kitten,” Crowley snarls, hanging up the phone and tossing it inside the barn. Taking a deep breath, he looks at the nearest line of the trap, the barn slowly falling apart behind him, and rain soft dirt. He can’t scratch out the trap himself, but it shouldn’t take very long for Juliet to heal enough to take care of it. He just has to wait.

* * *

Confident that she will be undisturbed, Abaddon invades the abandoned throne room of the Pit, laughing as the vermin scurry away, back to their dank hidey-holes and tortures. The rasp of screaming fills the air, torture masters (and their apprentices) going back to work, creating new demons for her.

Not one of them stands in the throne room to challenge her, to defend the throne. All that’s left are the slowly rotting remnants of Alastair’s tapestries.

Breathing out, she torches the place back to pure, burning away the darkness, blood, and ichor. What emerges after gleams like polished bone, shining like a beacon in Hell’s landscape.

The throne is not hers, she has no claim on it, but in the absence of the proper claimant, she can make use of this power.

The changes start small-- the Pit is resistant to change-- but they grow. The grand rack twists and turns, refusing some orders and enthusiastically embracing others. Contorting souls even further, fire and pain forming bone where before only formless smoke gathered.

She builds her army soul by soul, soldier by soldier, until they are ready to march across every plane of reality and destroy everything in its path.

When it’s done, she has thousands of shedim at her beck and call, loyal only to her. They don’t even remember being human, they’ve always been creatures of bone and smoke and fire.

It’s time.

“Vapula,” Abaddon murmurs, circling around the cowering ruler of Dis on the flagstones. “You have one chance to live.” Demons lines the walls, dully watching the spectacle. Shrugging into her human form, she approaches the frog-like demon and draws a single burning glyph into it’s back.

Vapula _screams_ , not-flesh bubbling away. The landscape outside shifts in response, defenses rising in response to the threat while Abaddon’s army waits for an opportune moment.

“You have sworn your allegiance,” Abaddon hisses. “Now prove it.”

Still screaming, Vapula shudders into a humanoid form, standing before her. “What would the queen wish of me?” they gasp out, voice straining.

“Spill forth your followers on Earth. Unleash the city of Dis, prove you deserve your throne.”

“As her majesty commands,” Vapula groans, flinching away from the still burning symbol on their back.

* * *

Dean paces the length of his motel room in Red Cloud, searching for something to take the edge off. He needs to hunt, needs to…

His hands twitch at the idea of thrusting the First Blade deep into the soft innards of some monster, loops of intestine catching on the teeth and spilling out--

“No,” he growls, glaring at himself in the mirror and shoving his hands into his pockets, away from his weapons. Not that he really needs weapons when he’s in this sort of mood, but it helps to keep control. If he can’t see his hands and can’t hold a knife, he can’t feel the phantom sensations of Hell sliding across his skin. Or at least, that’s the lie he’s comfortable telling himself. “C’mon Crowley, hurry up and get here already,” he mutters.

His phone remains stubbornly silent.

He’s starting to think that some hunter really did capture Crowley, putting them all out of his misery. It’s been two days, and aside from that phone call asking for rescue, there’s been nothing. Dean can’t remember the last time Crowley was silent for this long. Or when he wanted help.

Inhaling sharply, Dean gives up. Being patient is getting him nowhere. Time to figure out where the hell Crowley is so they can deal with Abaddon.

Dean barely recognizes the growl coming from his throat, his control overwhelmed by the need to send her back to the frozen wastes of Hell. He snatches up the car keys, shooting Sam a short text message to let him know that he’s leaving.

Let Sam and Kevin take lead on the kid. Dean has other shit to worry about. Not that he’s been allowed to meet the kid anyway-- Gavin’s locked himself up in the kitchen by all accounts, marveling at ‘modern’ appliances and refusing to leave for longer than it takes for him to sleep.

Sam calls within minutes of Dean sending the text, undoubtedly to complain about Dean taking off. Dean sends the call to voicemail, flipping the phone to silent and tossing it into the backseat, where it can be ignored until he wants to deal with Sam and everything that comes with him.

It’s over six hours to the last known location of Crowley’s phone, some tiny township that hasn’t quite been swallowed by the university town up along the interstate. He asks a few questions in town-- all three businesses-- with zero luck. Crowley would stand out-- tourists aren’t uncommon, but they’re here for the bike trail or the winery-- but no one’s seen a damn thing.

Which means where ever Crowley is, he didn’t stop in town.

Sam calls again and again, sending dozens of texts, demanding Dean come back to the Bunker, help with Gavin or whatever. It’s not that Dean doesn’t care, he just… can’t be fucked. What Sam wants from him, what Kevin and Henry want from him, isn’t something he can give right now. Not when he has a hunt in his sights.

Closing his eyes, Dean forces his body to relax into the seat of the Impala, trying to figure out where Crowley would have gone. Everything between here and the city is small farms, hobbies that barely pay for themselves.

Taking a deep breath, he deliberately calls up the bloodlust of the Mark, using it to point the way to Crowley like it did a couple weeks back-- looking for the direction with less pain.

He’s not sure it’s working, but ten minutes later, Dean’s speeding down a two lane county blacktop, following the vague sensation of ‘less burning.’ He passes the barn twice before parking the car in a turn off a couple hundred feet away.

Sighing, Dean waits for his eyes to adjust to the half-light of the setting sun before hiking over to the barn. “Crowley?”

“Oh, now you’ve decided to be useful?” Crowley yells back. “I thought I deserved what I got if some hunter trapped me.”

“You do,” Dean answers, only half paying attention. There has to be a trap somewhere if Crowley is still here, even if he can’t see it. “But no one’s called to brag, and you know how hunters love to gossip.”

“So you came to rescue me. How touching.”

“Don’t take it personally. You can talk to Gavin, then lead me to Abaddon.” Glancing around, Dean braces himself before carefully unwrapping the First Blade.

The rush is worse. He’s already primed to kill, but with Crowley this close and this human...

Slowly, deliberately, he beats back the thirst, shoving the First Blade into the dirt like a grave marker while he sucks in lungfuls of air. The first dizzying blast pushed back-- no, he will _not_ be shoving the Blade into Crowley’s belly-- Dean snatches it from the ground and stalks towards the barn.

“Squirrel? Squirrel!” Crowley yells. He might have been yelling for a while, Dean’s not sure how the Mark and Blade affect time, or his perception of it, while he’s high off Blade-vibes or whatever.

“What, Crowley?” Dean snaps back. “I’m busy. Do you want out of this or not?” Slowly, he walks around the abandoned barn, tracing the enormous devil’s trap drawn around the back three-quarters. “Who drew this? This is--”

“Meg. She always had a deft hand.”

“You two hate each other. She caught you by surprise?”

“Somehow. She’s a reprehensible, treacherous slug.” Crowley barks out a laugh. “If I was concerned about my position, I’d never trust her at my back. But she does have her talents.”

Raising an eyebrow, Dean crouches next to the barn, pulling away the vines to see how she handled the wall interruption. Even if they’re in a time crunch, he’s always wanted to figure out how to run a trap through walls. Turns out, she cheated, cutting the board over the trap’s outer circle off a few inches above the ground, just enough for the line to continue unbroken.

“Whenever you’re ready. It’s not like there is a rush.”

Scowling, Dean reaches over and scratches through the line of sand before standing up and moving to the doorway. “Alright, Dudley, you’re free--” Something huffs in his face, breathing out rotting blood and sulfur just before giant, invisible, paws land on his shoulders, pushing him back against the doorframe.

Dean freezes, hand tightening on the hilt of the Blade. “Crowley…”

“Juliet, get _down_ ,” Crowley says sharply. There’s a short pause and a damp almost-lick, and then the weight on his shoulders disappears.

Dean glares at Crowley. “You didn’t think you should warn me? Fuck, I nearly stabbed her.”

“But you didn’t. Shall we move on? You did have a purpose in coming here, I assume.”

Turning on his heel, Dean shoves the First Blade into the back of his jean, kicking and scattering the trap as he passes. Fuck every single bit of this day.

* * *

They start small. A single demon moving into a slumlord apartment building, taking advantage of everything that it offers. One demon becomes two, becomes four, becomes eight and within hours, demons nearly outnumber the humans in the mid-sized city in the center of the country.

A demon rips the spine out of a child, tossing the still writhing corpse into the pit dedicated to Abaddon’s power. Blood and soul drips down the demon’s claws, and it grins at the next human in the herd, long tongue snaking out to lap blood from the nearest body.

It won’t take many more to rip a hole where her demons can pass through uncontested. Dozens of demons, and hundreds, thousands of humans with their throats ripped out-- no praying for help this time-- their lifeblood spilling into the bedrock under city.

Not uselessly. She will have everything she needs. Whatever humans are left in the city will have problems finding what they need, but that will just add to the misery and chaos left behind.

* * *

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Henry near whispers, staring at the laptop screen while wrapped around his first cup of coffee for the day.

It’s the first thing he does in the morning, after getting ready (and sometimes before he’s even showered, although that is incredibly rare. Sam’s seen it happen twice-- once while hungover after a run-in with the Stynes and once when Henry was sick). Today though, is neither of those, so despite the early hour, Henry is fully dressed and replacing his newspaper habit with the internet.

“Oh, _shit_.”

“What’s up?” Raising an eyebrow, Sam glances over from his bowl of Cheerios. “That’s a lot of cursing from you for this early in the morning.”

Henry spins the laptop around. _Over 300 Dead In Apparent Terrorist Attack_ screams the headline, above a photo of a football stadium. The stadium itself doesn’t look damaged, a huge bowl of red and gray concrete, but the giant trench in the field-- spanning from the thirty yard line to the opposite twenty-- is the focus of the picture. Bodies are piled haphazardly, only beginning to be pulled out by emergency workers. The photographer had a good placement in the stands, high enough to have a decent sense of scale, but close enough to still be able to tell that these are human bodies, throats and spines ripped out before being tipped into a charnel pile.

“Oh my _God_.” Sam blinks. “We gotta-- _Fuck_.”

“There’s no way that’s not something in our wheelhouse. Call your brother-- this is an all hands on deck situation. We’ll meet him in Lincoln.” Pushing away from the table, Henry heads towards his room, presumably to pack.

Blowing out a breath, Sam shoots Dean a text with a link to the article before pulling the laptop over. They’re going to need a lot more information before they go walking into this blindly. They’ll have plenty of cover-- Homeland Security, FBI, every alphabet agency under the sun is going to be swarming that site-- but that also means security is going to be tight.

“What’s going on?” Kevin asks, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Henry just ran by. I didn’t think he had a speed faster than jog.”

“Abaddon.” Sam swallows. “Murdered a lot of people last night. I’m pretty sure it’s her anyway. Even if it’s not--”

Kevin moves behind him to look at the screen. “That’s… a frickin’ lot more than three hundred.”

“Yeah. I know.” Sam pushes the laptop away. “Which hunters do we have nearby? We’re going to need back up.”

Kevin huffs, sitting down at the table, fingers already flying over the keyboard. “Isn’t the whole point of Dean’s new tattoo to take her out?”

“And if he dies trying to get to her?”

“I’m not sure he can. The lore on the Mark-- you got to have realized by now that it’s completely fucked up.”

“Focus on Abaddon for right now. We’ll deal with the Mark later.”

“And when later has us facing an undead monster?” Kevin asks testily. “I can already tell you that that--” he jabs a finger towards the laptop. “--is part of some plan to gather power for her. I recognize some of it.”

“Figure out how to stop it. Get some hunters there to help out.” Sam stalks from the kitchen, shoving his phone in his pocket and heading towards his room. Kevin-- who has shown unexpected abilities at organizing hunters-- can work the phone tree while Sam packs. “We’re on the road as soon as we’re packed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Juliet gets captured and used as bait in a trap for Crowley. She gets hurt in this. But she ends up being fine, Dean and Crowley rescue her.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You see those tags about terrorism up there? "Terror attack, Terrorism, Aftermath of Terrorism"? This is the chapter where they come into play. Just be forewarned.
> 
> (also the minor character death)

Gadreel obeys the directions of a police officer, following the line of volunteers weaving into the depths of the stadium. Someone whispers that the body count is over three thousand now, the number repeated up and down the line like a mantra.

Death on this scale… even the reapers, dotted here and there among the bodies, look subdued.

Dozens, hundreds, of angels are already here with more arriving every moment, invisibly taking up stations inside the stadium, awaiting Abaddon’s next move.

He watches for a while longer, trying to understand her purpose, before returning to Heaven to prepare. Whatever Abaddon is planning, Heaven needs to know.

* * *

Sam takes a deep breath, half listening for the comforting growl of the Impala. “Ok. There’s a bunch of other hunters already inside, but only as volunteers. Homeland Security is treating this like a terrorist attack on the same scale as 9/11--”

Kevin groans. “Goodbye civil liberties.”

“Not the time, Kev. Irv and Mark have laid the groundwork to get a theology expert inside.” He passes Henry a badge. “Henry, congratulations on your doctorate. Kev, stick with Henry-- his TA or whatever.” He looks at the two of them, his eyes bleak. “I don’t want Dean walking into this without knowing what’s going on.”

“He could wait,” Henry says dryly. “Rather than rushing in half-cocked.”

“When this many people have died? Innocent people, who were living their lives until we fucked up and let Abaddon loose? No. This is on us, and I can guarantee you, Dean’s not going to wait any longer than necessary.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Let’s go.”

“This is already giving me the creeps,” Kevin says, staring at the stadium’s facade as they approach. “Something isn’t right.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s our job to make it right.”

“If we can.” Henry spreads his hand defensively when they turn to look at him. “Those folks are dead. Unless we’ve got an in with the reapers, there’s no coming back from that.”

“With the angels fallen? No,” Sam says slowly. “Bringing them back isn’t going to happen. Avenging them? That we can do.” Spinning on his heel, he strides towards the gathered crowd of suits at the main gate, flashing his badge and jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Experts. Anyone got photographs for them, or should I take them onto the field?”

The agent manning the entrance shrugs, waving them through. “Best view is in the student section. Spencer’s set up in one of the boxes for forensics.”

“Alright,” Sam nods, making a mental note to avoid the box seats. “Thanks.” He signs in with an illegible scrawl and heads into the back areas of the stadium, acting like he knows where he’s going.

Once they’re out of sight, he turns to Kevin and Henry. “You two figure out what the ritual’s for. I’ll check out the bodies.” He sends them towards the field, following a few steps behind before turning off into the maze of corridors around and under the field.

The stench of blood is easy to follow, drawing him deeper into the complex. Dozens of bodies line the hallways, unidentified except for a number on a toe tag. Crouching next to the nearest body, Sam pulls aside the shroud to have a look.

The man’s face is frozen in terror and splattered with blood, his throat _literally_ ripped out-- the demon jammed their fingers into the narrow space between the bone and windpipe, rupturing the muscles, and ripped everything free. Sam can see the bone when he shines his flashlight around to get a better look.

Retching, Sam stumbles back, looking down the corridor. They’re all like this-- brutally murdered, even taking into account that demons did the killing. Thousands of people, over four thousand the last he heard, slain to accomplish some unknown goal. A single body, a couple, he’s used to that. On a bad hunt, maybe five. But this… this is the population of a small city, murdered because Abaddon wanted… something.

“Sam?” Kevin calls down the hallway. “You down here?”

“Here, Kev.” Swallowing, Sam drags himself back to the present. “What’s up?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.” Kevin picks his way down the corridor between bodies, reaching down to twitch the occasional shroud back into place. “We got worried.”

“About me, or about me and demon blood?”

“You. Are there demons here?” Kevin asks, near frantic.

“How the hell would I know?” Sam shrugs, shakes himself before heading towards the entrance. “There’s nothing we didn’t already know down here. What did you guys find out?”

“She’s raising a bunch of power. All those souls though… straight to Hell.”

“But it _is_ Abaddon, for sure?”

“Her or someone else who wants the throne bad enough unearth some seriously sketchy rituals. This isn’t even on the demon tablet, I have no idea where she found it. But I’m pretty sure she’s trying to open a permanent path.”

“You don’t survive in Hell for as long as she has without an imagination,” Sam murmurs, looking around, at the mass carnage.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Kevin starts before the building is rocked by an enormous explosion. “Wha--”

“She’s back,” Sam breathes, sprinting towards the football field. “Call Dean, tell him to get his ass here!”

When he finally hits the field, he wishes he hadn’t. More bodies-- or maybe the same ones, thrown by the explosion-- have been scattered around the field. The near edge of the crater-- at the mid-field-- has partially collapsed, but the most of it still gapes open, a maw ready to be filled.

Demons are climbing out of the pit, not as a solid mass of black smoke, but hundreds of Abaddon’s shedim. They crawl along the ground like oversized and under-limbed spiders before leaping for the sky.

Angels flicker in and out above the field, grappling with shedim. Long, impossibly skinny arms wrap around the angels, pulling them from the sky, plummeting into the trench.

The ones that fall don’t come back out.

Distantly, he can hear people screaming and the sharp crack of gun fire. Blood blossoms against the white shirts of a few angels, but gun shots accomplish nothing. Shaking off his shock, Sam herds the civilians pouring out of the tunnels back inside, away from what is sure to be another massacre.

When he turns to take stock, Henry stands defiantly at the ten yard line, shielding a cowering civilian and shouting something Sam can’t hear. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he opens it with a flick, slashing it against his arm. Blood flows down his arm, dripping--

Sam’s slammed off his feet by a demon, losing sight of Henry.

The demon wraps spindly fingers around his throat, banging Sam’s head against the ground and hissing.

Sucking in a breath, Sam lets himself go limp as Henry’s voice rises to a triumphant pitch. The demon holding him screams in defiance, tightening its grip until Sam has spots in front of his eyes.

Sam jerks his head forward, crunching his forehead into the demon’s face. It flinches backwards, off balance.

Flipping them over, Sam gropes in his jacket pocket for the demon killing knife and comes up with nothing. Looking around frantically, he spots an angel blade a couple of yards away. Pushing away from the demon, he scrambles to reach it before the demon grabs him again.

His fingers brush the hilt as the demon yanks him backwards, pulling him out of reach. Frantically kicking backwards, Sam slams his boot into the demon’s face, ignoring the crunch of cartilage and lurching forward.

Sam grabs the angel blade, twisting around and waving it wildly.

The demon ignores his slashes, even when Sam makes contact, pulling Sam by the leg, towards the hole. There’s more shouting around them but there’s no one coming to save the civilians besides him.

Rolling himself up, Sam somehow plunges the angel blade into the demon’s skull. It bursts into flame, leaving only a scattering of ash behind.

Scrambling to his feet, Sam charges after and kills any demon he can. A couple of others are doing the same-- other hunters, he assumes, since they’re actually successful-- having picked up fallen blades as well.

The field is littered with angel blades. Sam looks up, where the sky had been swarming with angels and demons fighting. There’s only a few angels left flying, a few others in clusters in the ground, but…

This battle is _lost_.

Whatever Abaddon has planned, the angels haven’t been able to stop it. Given the numbers of angels, Sam’s not even sure they _tried_.

Looking around, Sam searches for Henry. It’s time to get out of here before something else happens and it goes even more off the rails. He finally spots Henry near where he’d been standing before, surrounded by a heap of dead bodies-- demonic bodies, Sam sees as he runs closer. Whatever that spell was must have worked.

“Henry, we gotta go,” Sam yells.

Henry waves in acknowledgment, hands stained red with blood, and starts picking his way through the bodies that surround him.

A demon stumbles into Sam, running from a group of angels. Tightening his grip on the angel blade, Sam stabs it in the side and then the chest before kicking it aside, frantically trying to find Henry again.

A glut of fire shoots up from the gash, white at the edges, blue at the center, burning anything nearby to ash. Henry turns to look, raising an arm to protect his face from the heat, but trips over something.

Sam can’t do anything but scream as Henry is swallowed by the flame.

* * *

“What. the fuck. Is that?” Dean points towards the pillar of flame, visible even over the superstructure surrounding the stadium. Throwing the Impala into park, he stares at the flame before looking at the panicking crowd of agents and law enforcement running from the entrances.

“Abaddon. It seems she’s in a hurry.” Crowley frowns next to him, looking at something Dean can’t see.

“A hurry for what? S’mores?” Dean double checks the First Blade is riding easily at his back and that his gun is loaded before sucking in a breath. “Guess this is it. Any last tips?”

Crowley’s eyes flash with… something… before he reaches over to brush off Dean’s collar. He hovers there for a long moment before backing off. “She’s older, smarter, _and_ more powerful than you. Pick your moment carefully, Squirrel. You won’t get a second one.”

“Cheerful. Great.”

Reaching into his pocket, Crowley pulls out an amulet of some kind and drapes it around his neck. “Juliet and I will buy you some time.”

“What does that mean?”

Crowley ignores him, snapping his fingers with a wry smile.

Demon Transit is even less pleasant than Angel Air. It takes Dean precious moments to get his stomach under control so he doesn’t yack up his lunch. Sucking in a breath, Dean shakes himself to loosen up, pulling his pistol out and stalking onto the field.

Dead maybe-angels or maybe-Feds litter the field, broken and mangled, intermingled with stray piles of ash. A few angels still survive, limping clusters of four or five, watching each other’s backs while the demons attack.

The flame cuts off, leaving a breathless silence in its wake.

Abaddon rises out of the trench with a beat of huge wings, leathery and bat-like and much more real Cas’s wings have ever been. Dean stares at her for a shocked moment before his brain reboots. The lore had identified her as one of the great demons, a dragon who’s coming meant chaos and destruction. He never thought they meant it literally.

He finally spots Sam, on the other side of the field, herding angels and civilians away from the fight. Good, hopefully he’ll stay there.

“Abaddon,” Dean calls, barely louder than normal. “Cain gave me a message for you.”

“And what is that, then?” Abaddon lands lightly on the grass, easily assuming her human shape-- the same redhead as in the church-- and sauntering towards him, all deadly sexuality and arrogance. “Cain is weak, and selfish.”

“Go back to Hell. You’ve got plenty of shit to take care of.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you, Dean? You’ve left the Pit leaderless for _centuries_. It still functions, but it is begging for someone to take control. You can’t do it, you’re too weak. _Human_.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, pulling the First Blade from his back. “Good. Let it rot and fester.”

“How did you get that?” Abaddon’s eyes widen and she sways backwards. “Cain destroyed it centuries ago.”

“Apparently not,” Dean shrugs, tightening his grip. She has to make the first move. He doesn't know why, just that it’s a requirement.

A giant claw wraps around Dean, pinning the Blade to his side and squeezing. Gasping for air, Dean fights the pressure, trying to get free. Abaddon slams him to the ground, an invisible weight pressing him into the torn up grass.

“I know what you are, Dean Winchester. A child, trying to go toe to toe with _me_. I was the first of the Knights, and the only one who dared defy Cain.” She pushes him over with her toe so he’s facing her before crouching over him. “Where’s your angelic backup this time?” A claw sharp fingernail trails across his cheekbone and across his lips.

Cold fear runs down his spine, but he ignores it. Dean smirks up at her, turning his head aside to spit blood from his mouth. “Don’t need it.”

Swinging his arm with every bit of strength he can manage, Dean slams the First Blade into her thigh. It glances off without doing any real damage, but it knocks her off him. The pressure holding him vanishes and Dean scrambles to his feet.

Abaddon grabs Dean’s jacket, yanking him in close. Her other hand grows claws, swiping at him and tearing inches deep into Dean’s side before shoving him away with a laugh.

Crying out, Dean stumbles backwards. Glancing down, he can see the Mark glowing a sullen red even through his jacket, the pain pulling attention away from his side. Hell, he might still be screaming, but it doesn’t matter.

He launches forward, tackling her to the ground. Blood pours out of his side, making the grass slick under his knees.

Abaddon laughs under him, spitting blood to the side to mingle with his. “You really think you can control me?”

“I don’t care about control,” Dean spits, pinning her and punching her in the face. “I care about removing you from the board.”

Taking a deep breath, he allows the Mark and First Blade to overtakes his consciousness, drowning out everything else. The high washes over him, not calm, but he no longer gives a flying rat’s ass about anything other than defeating Abaddon.

It acts as its own painkiller, pushing pain and worry to the side where it can be ignored.

Abaddon twists under him, throwing him to the side. The First Blade jolts out of his hand, spinning away. Dean scrambles to follow it.

Until he can’t, pinned to the ground like a stuck butterfly. Abaddon’s shoved a spike through his jeans, and is standing over him with fucking _dragon wings_ , smiling down at him. “I’m waiting, Dean. You promised me a fight, just us. I expected better from Alastair’s apprentice and Cain’s heir.”

“Where’s your chaos, huh? Or is it just gonna be us, because you’re not nearly as powerful as you think you are.” Jerking his legs free, Dean gasps-- even through the adrenaline and haze, his side fucking _hurts--_ and pushes himself to his feet.

He uses the motion to cover pulling his pistol. He doesn’t stop to aim, unloading the entire clip into her. A couple punch through her wings but the majority of them hit center mass.

Abaddon smirks and reaches up, ripping her shirt open to expose a bullet proof vest, bullets embedded in the weave. “Nice grouping,” she says sarcastically. “And not very sporting.”

“You’re a damn demon, I’m a hunter, sport was never going to happen,” Dean spits, tossing the gun away. Looking around, he spots the First Blade a few yards away.

Diving after it, landing on his bad side, hurts, but it’s back in his grasp. Bringing it up, he lops off a section of the wing chasing after him.

Abaddon _screams_ , fire erupting from her throat, searing everything around him. Dean pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the flame burning and crisping his skin. Grinning like a maniac, he takes slow measured steps towards her.

She stands still, watching him curiously but not moving. Dangerously overconfident.

More advantage for him.

Jumping forward, Dean grabs Abaddon’s arm, dragging her close and shoving the Blade into her shoulder. Abaddon jerks back, batting him away with the wing that’s still intact. Ripping the Blade from her shoulder, Dean flies through the air, landing in a heap next to a pile of bodies. Breathless, he blinks away the slight dizziness, turning to intercept Abaddon’s attack.

The Blade cuts through her arm like butter, sending a hand flying somewhere behind them.

Abaddon pulls an old knife from somewhere, at least two feet long and tipped with a six inch rooster spur. Spinning it around, she’s faster than he is, digging the tip into his arm-- thigh-- chest before he can knock it away, dragging the razor sharp tip across his chest.

Twisting it around in some complicated maneuver he can’t follow, she catches his hand with the flat. White hot pain shoots through his hand, the muscles spasming and dropping the Blade.

Dean blinks, staring up at Abaddon from his knees with her knife at his throat. A slow, sadistic, smile spreads across her face. “Lucifer is right about one thing, humans do look good on their knees.”

“Fuck off and get a new line,” Dean slurs, jerking backwards. “You’re not my type.”

“Everyone’s my type, Dean. Particularly pretty boys with things they don’t understand burned into their soul.”

“Wha?”

Abaddon rips open his shirt and glances at the tattoo on his chest. “Oh, that’s _precious_. You got it redone. Not going to do you much good though.” She laughs, sliding into mania. “I should let you go, so you know _exactly_ what you’ve done.”

“You’re not killing me today.” Sucking in a breath, Dean lurches to the side, stretching to reach the Blade that lies just out of reach. It takes everything he has left to wrap his hand around the handle and shove it into Abaddon’s chest.

Staggering backwards, she takes the Blade with her over the edge of the crater--he didn’t realize how close they were-- and bursts into blue-white light as she goes. Dean sags away from the edge as the light fades, blinking away the afterimage of the dark cancer of the First Blade eating through her.

It takes him a couple minutes to push himself to his feet, his hands barely working and empty without the Blade nestled into his palm. Standing at the edge, Dean looks down, staring into the bottomless abyss.

Abaddon’s dead. And with her… something. He’s lost track.

A careful hand slides up his arm, urging him to step away. A voice mutters at his side-- attached to the arm, maybe?-- but he can’t follow what it’s saying, too quiet and possibly not in English? Grimacing, Dean lets himself be lowered to the ground, watching the field around them blankly.

“Dean?” He knows Sammy’s voice anywhere. Lifting a hand, he lets it fall on Sam’s arm. “Crowley, what happened?”

“Abaddon happened. He saved us,” the other voice says. “And now we have to save him.”

* * *

Sam drops to his knees beside Dean, stripping off a shirt and pressing it into Dean’s side. “Crowley, help,” he snaps. “Put pressure on that.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at the order, but complies.

Sam doesn’t have time to worry about Crowley. The claw marks on Dean’s side are life threateningly deep.

“Cas, get here, _please_. Dean’s… hurt. I don’t know if we’ll be able to save him without you,” Sam prays. His phone rings twice, stops, and then rings again. “What?” he snarls.

“Sam? What’s going on?” Kevin demands, loud and frantic.

“Everything’s… Abaddon’s gone. Find someplace safe and stay there.”

“What does that mean?”

Looking at Dean-- jaw locked tight, eyes closed-- Sam sucks in a breath and holds it before letting it out in a gust. “It means you’ll be okay.” He hits the end call button and looks at Crowley. “Any ideas?”

“Plenty of them.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “Try being a bit more specific?”

“On how to save Dean, asshole.” Dean starts to twitch under both their hands, feebly twisting away from the pressure Crowley is putting on his side. “Fuck,” Sam breathes.

Dean mumbles something, angrily, his arms starting to move. Soon he’s jerking around like he’s having a seizure, fighting something Sam can’t see. Abaddon must have poisoned her knife with something to cause this.

Sam looks around frantically, hoping to see Cas striding across the field, but willing to settle for any hope at all.

A third pair of hands appear, pressing Dean’s shoulders to the ground. “Hold him,” the woman demands. “And choose. I do not have unlimited grace.”

“What? I don’t--”

“His side or the poison, Sam Winchester. I can’t heal both.”

Tearing his eyes away from the rapidly growing red stain on Dean’s shirt, Sam looks at the woman. She isn’t in much better shape than Dean is, bleeding through the tattered remains of her shirt. A few cuts are deep enough that Sam’s confused that he doesn’t see grace leaking out.

“His side,” Crowley says urgently. “The poison we can deal with.”

“Crowley!” Sam starts, but it’s too late.

The angel nods once, decisively, before holding her hand over Dean’s forehead. “Demon, remove your hands. This is hard enough without your taint.”

Crowley glares, but lets the shirt fall away.

A harsh glow limns the edges of the claw marks, barely visible in the afternoon sun. The gashes seal together slowly, from the inside out, until the only thing left is Dean’s blood on his skin. The angel falls forward, supporting herself with one hand on the ground.

“Hey, are you alright?” Sam glances at Dean, but he’s still, twitching occasionally. “Do you need help, or--”

The angel shakes her head, leaning back so she’s no longer balanced over Dean. “Castiel insisted that we learn to value humanity and free will. He is mostly wrong, but _this_ , this he was right about.”

“I don’t--”

“And you never will,” she cuts him off. “He tried to tell you, but neither of you listened.” She looks down at Dean for a long moment before meeting Sam’s eyes. “I hope you know what you’ve unleashed.” She pushes herself to her feet and staggers away.

Watching her go, Sam’s sure she’s bleeding more than she was before, grace trickling out of dozens of cuts that she ignores.

“For fuck’s sake, Moose, stop flirting and pay attention,” Crowley snaps. “Keep him calm. I’ll be back with an antidote for the poison.”

“What sort of antidote?” Sam asks, biting his lip as Dean starts thrashing again.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” Crowley scoffs. “Believe it or not, I am very good at what I do.” He takes a couple steps and disappears.

Before Sam can move, something snuffles at his shoulder, warm, damp, and reeking of sulfur. Hellhound. Crowley set his hellhound on them. He carefully reaches for his discarded angel blade, squeezing it tightly.

The hound is still invisible, hidden except for the occasional sigh.

“Sammy,” Dean groans. “No dogs in the car.”

“We’re not in the car, Dean. Stay with me, okay?” Frantically, Sam punches Kevin’s name in his contact list. “Kev, demonic poison in puncture wounds. I need a cure _now_.”

“In the middle of a football field? What the hell do you expect me to come up with?” Kevin pauses. “Wait, I thought you said everything was fine.”

“Later. Need a cure.”

“Fuck if--” Kevin cuts himself off. Sam can hear him moving around, probably searching for something. “Uh. Holy water, won’t cure it, should slow it down. Why are you asking me? Isn’t Henry with you?”

Sam glances across the trench to the last place he saw Henry and ignores the question. “Holy water. Right.” This is a freaking football stadium, surely there’s a water bottle somewhere…

Crowley shoves him aside, nearly knocking Sam off his feet. “Useless buggers, all of ‘em.” Grinding something together in a bowl, he frowns, looking around. “Gigantor-- Drag a dying angel over here, will you?”

“What the hell? What are you talking about?”

“Do I have to do everything myself?” Crowley barks, backed up by the angry growl of a hellhound. “Bloody moron.” He glances around before disappearing again, reappears next to the nearest knot of angels, grabbing the arm of one, and suddenly re-appearing next to Dean, angel in tow.

Crowley slits the angel’s throat before Sam can do more than gape. Faint traces of blue-white light escape from the angel’s throat, drifting away before Crowley holds a bottle of some sort to the cut, capturing it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam knocks Crowley away, jostling Dean off his lap. “You can’t just--”

“Do you know _why_ humans have almost no lore on Abaddon, Sam?” Crowley leans back, glancing-- almost worried, Sam thinks-- down at Dean and the grace spilling uselessly out of the angel. “Because she leaves no survivors. Not on Earth, not in Hell, certainly not wherever she’s headed.”

“So you’re going to kill an _angel_?”

“Won’t be the first, nor last.” Crowley pushes him out of the way, snatching up the vial and collecting the last few tendrils. “ _Hold him_. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Blankly, Sam shakes himself. “What are you doing?”

“Saving your bloody brother.” Crowley winces as some of the grace spills over the edge of the vial, a rash burning across his hand for a moment before smoothing away. “Hold this.”

Sam gasps when Crowley rips open Dean’s shirt. Thick, unnaturally green lines twist under Dean’s skin centered on a cut across his chest. The wound isn’t deep but-- Sam leans closer to look, trying avoid the bubbling at the edges-- “Are those _maggots_?”

“Yes,” Crowley snaps. “And any number of other nasty things. She changes it every time, more interested in causing pain than elegance or efficiency.” Snatching the vial of grace from Sam’s hand, he dips his finger in with a wince. “Figure out where else she hit him,” Crowley demands before shoving the grace soaked finger into the wound on Dean’s chest.

Dean convulses under Sam’s hands, an anguished scream tearing itself free from his clenched jaw. His legs jerk repeatedly until there’s a distinctly canine whine and something drapes itself over his legs, keeping them still.

Sam presses Dean down, trying to figure out which cuts and bruises are standard issue and which are something else. “Thigh,” he directs when the thrashing has died down. “Maybe his upper arm, I can’t get a good look.”

Crowley’s jaw tightens, but he nods and continues working, plastering the chest wound with the paste from the bowl and moving on to the next.

* * *

The field, when Kevin finally gets there, is covered in bodies. A handful of angels grimly move around the end zone, killing demons, but there are far more human and angel bodies than demon.

He ignores them, picking his way through the wreckage in search of Sam and Dean. The cops and news crews and God knows what else will be showing back up soon, and they need to get out of here before that happens.

“Sam?”

Sam waves him off, more focused on Dean’s thrashing body, poison green tendrils of something pushing their way down Dean’s arm to drip from his finger tips. “Not now.”

“You’re letting Crowley work on him, but you don’t have time to answer questions?”

“Please,” Crowley sneers. “Ask all the questions you want. I’m sure Moose will be more than happy to answer them.” His jaw tightens slightly before pouring a glowing blue-white liquid-- grace, he found angel grace-- over Dean’s thigh and upper arm, pausing for a moment before upending the last over his chest.

Dean convulses as the grace hits his skin, before falling back, deathly still. Crowley waits for a heartbeat before getting back to work, smearing something over the wounds.

“Is he--”

“No,” Sam cuts Kevin off. “He’s alive, somehow. Weak, but alive.”

“Great. Because The cops are going to want an explanation any moment and I don’t think we want to be here to give it.” Kevin looks around the field, the fresh waste of humanity. “Where’s Henry? I thought he was with you.”

“He was.” Sam nods towards the trench a few yards away, biting his lip. “He was too close, too--” He breaks off abruptly. “The fireball.”

“Oh.” Then, “Are you sure?”

Sam shakes his head.

Grimacing, Crowley stands, brushing off the knees of his slacks. “This was fun. Let’s do it again never. I expect you’ll call me again when you need something-- try to make it worth my while next time?” He walks away, disappearing between one step and the next.

“I hate it when he does that,” Kevin mutters. Sam looks up questioning. “Mostly, I hate him.”

Sam nods slowly before motioning Kevin over. “C’mon. Help me with Dean.”

Even with two of them, it takes them twenty minutes to get Dean out to the Impala. Dean slips in and out of consciousness, moaning in pain.

Sam stares at the car for a long time before shaking himself. “Grab the car we came in, meet me at the Bunker. I don’t want to leave any trace that we were here if we can help it.”

Raising an eyebrow, Kevin accepts the keys Sam digs out of his pocket and rushes towards the boring sedan they drove here.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all knew this was coming.   
> Canon Temporary Major Character Death

Dean burns with fever for _days_. The grace, Mark, and poison fight each other and the only loser is Dean.

On day three or four, Sam lets Kevin bully him out of Dean’s room and into his own bed for a ‘quick nap.’ When he wakes up, eighteen hours later, Charlie is sitting at his bedside. “Charlie?”

“Oh, thank Pelor. I was starting to get worried.” Sitting back, she makes a face.

“I thought you were in Oz, with Dorothy.”

Charlie motions for him to sit up before pressing a cup of coffee into his hand. “I was. Then, ya know, Kevin called and said he needed help and--”

Holding up a hand, Sam blinks. “Kevin _called_? You had fucking cell service?”

“Less cell phone and more _seriously_ questionable magic.” Charlie shrugs, her eyes bleak. “Some things happened and it… it was time to come home.” Straightening up and plastering an obviously fake smile on, she mock-glares at him. “Of course, I would have come home sooner if I’d known you were doing the final run on the Death Star.”

“We-- There wasn’t time. We were investigating the other thing and then--” Pushing the cup of coffee away, Sam tries to stand up. “Dean.”

Charlie pushes him back down, handing him back his coffee. “Is sleeping. Fever broke a couple hours ago, Kev’s with him.” She fidgets a bit, before bursting out. “Who the hell is this Gavin kid and why is he--”

Sam shakes his head. He’d forgotten all about Gavin in the rush to take care of Abaddon and now-- “Shit, we can’t get him home.”

“I’m pretty sure we can, Sam.” She mimes typing before glancing up. “There’s not a whole lot of places airplanes don’t go. Not that that answers who he is.”

“Yeah, airplanes don’t go to the past.” Draining his coffee, he pushes his hair out of his face. “I need to talk to Dean.”

“That can wait until you get cleaned up and eat something,” Charlie cuts him off. “Sleeping, remember? I promise, we’ll get you if that changes.”

Sam nods dully, following her push towards the bathroom. He’s going to have to trust her, hard as that is right now.

A woman is leaving the bathroom when he rounds the corner, wearing one of Charlie’s shirts. She takes a startled step back before relaxing. “Sam, right? The younger brother?”

“Uh, yeah. Who are you?”

She frowns, glaring down the hallway towards the living quarters. “Dorothy Baum. Freedom Fighter of Oz. Charlie was supposed to-- Of course she didn’t.”

“Right. Yeah, no, she just-- Why are you here?”

“I figured Henry would want some help in getting Dean back on his feet. Some of the old men’s cure-alls need a second pair of trained hands. But he’s apparently off doing Men of Letters bullshit, since you let a fever ravage Dean’s body.” She must see something in his face, because she takes a step back. “Or… not?”

Sam shakes his head, the loss hitting him for the first time. “He... uh. Abaddon.”

“Oh.” Politely, she glances to the side, refusing to meet his eyes. “Then I’m going to get to work on Dean. I don’t know what atrocity you used to deal with her poison, but it’s making everything much more complicated.”

“Angel grace,” Sam manages to blurt out. “But the angel was dying and--”

“Shit,” Dorothy breathes out. “That changes the components…” She rushes off, leaving Sam standing in the middle of the hallway, staring after her.

Forgetting about the shower, Sam rushes after her. If they’ve been doing the wrong thing…

* * *

Frowning, Castiel paces from one end of his cell to the other. He’s been listening to Sam pray off and on for days, what started as fearful pleading for help transitioning to little more than half-hearted updates. Because Castiel _isn’t_ coming, can’t fly in to save the day. The most he could do is hold Dean’s hand and wait for the end, but he can’t even do that now, imprisoned as he is.

“Castiel,” an angel calls from the hallway. “X will see you now.”

He thinks about it for a few seconds-- long enough irritate his jailers-- before shaking his head. “I have nothing to say to Metatron.”

“It wasn’t a request.” The door to his cell opens, angels pouring in and trapping him against the wall. Two immobilize his wings, pulling them away from his back, while a third wraps handcuffs around his wrists.

Abruptly, Castiel loses all sense of Heaven beyond the human. He’s suffocating, a dull pressure on his chest, opposite where his wings are still trapped. Shuddering, he leans forward, desperately trying to keep from panicking.

“Good enough,” an angel says skeptically. “Hopefully he can focus when X is speaking.”

They frog-march him out to Gadreel waiting at the entrance. He dismisses the guards, grabbing hold of Castiel’s upper arm. “I apologize for the handcuffs, however, X’s safety is paramount.” He takes flight abruptly, dragging Castiel along behind him.

The room they land in is sparse and frigid, lacking any sense of personality or kindness. A couple of desks, some monitors similar to the Bunker’s map room, all in an industrial soulless white.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel forces himself to being cut off from everything. He can’t even hear angel radio, let alone spot someone coming at his back-- Gadreel is still looking at him, waiting for a response. “Allow me to turn return to Earth, Gadreel. I have important--”

“Your duties,” someone cuts him off from behind, “are what I assign you. Which is certainly _not_ assisting the Winchesters in whatever problems they’re caught up with now.”

Gadreel turns them around, pushing Castiel into the office. The contrast between the two rooms is shocking. It’s warm and cozy, reminding Castiel of Bobby’s living room, once upon a time. Red-brown wood bookshelves and desk, with a matching leather armchair dominate the room, over a red-orange rug.

“Come in, Castiel. We have things to discuss.”

Closing his eyes briefly to regain his balance, Castiel allows Gadreel to drag him forward and push him into a chair. “I’m not sure we do, Metatron. Unless you wish to return me to Earth.”

“Mmm, not yet,” Metatron says calmly, waving his hand. A second chair appears in front of the desk. “Gadreel, sit. You’re going to give me neck pains towering over me like that.”

“Sir, this is--”

“Sit _down_ , Gadreel. Castiel isn’t going to hurt me. We need each other too much.”

Gadreel frowns but sits, primly and on edge.

Ignoring Gadreel, Castiel tilts his head. “We need each other?”

“The three of us in this room are the only angels with spine, Cas,” Metatron lies smoothly. “Without us leading the way, Heaven will fall into chaos. Which will lead, inevitably, to the destruction of the souls’ afterlives. Our most pressing mandate and it’s on the precipice of being destroyed.”

Considering Metatron’s the one that caused the angels to fall, that’s a stretch, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment. Castiel’s eyebrows climb. “What does that have to do with me?”

“ _Everything_.” Metatron sweeps his arm out, towards the rest of Heaven. “Your little rebellion a few years back, your constant refusal to obey if it will harm Dean-- I’m sorry, _humanity--_ ” he sneers. “You’re the closest thing angels have to Elvis.”

Gadreel shifts uncomfortably in the chair next to him. Castiel watches him carefully, trying to figure out what Metatron’s angle is.

“Gadreel here, he’s the good son. Obeying the new God in all my demands. How are the angels left on Earth?” Metatron asks sharply.

“Dead, or at least, all the ones I know of are,” Gadreel says quietly. “Abaddon’s forces were stronger than expected, and while the seraphs tried to push them back, they were overwhelmed.”

“As they should have been.” Metatron looks smug and Castiel wants nothing more than to punch him. “Those who accepted me into their hearts survived, and those who did not died for their reluctance.”

Castiel stares at him in shock. “That’s… dozens, _hundreds_ of angels. And you let them die? What--” He starts to lurch to his feet, off balance without his hands free. “How does that help Heaven?”

“We’re rebuilding Heaven, Castiel. Sweeping away the hierarchy left behind by the archangels.”

“So you can build a new one.”

“We must impose order in Heaven and among the angels,” Gadreel snaps suddenly. “There cannot be another civil war, not if we are going to survive.”

Castiel leans back in his chair, unsure of why he’s here. Comparisons to Elvis are all well and good, whatever Metatron means by them, but he’s missing something. “Get to the point, Metatron. Or let me return to my duties.”

“Again, I am God now. Your duties are what I say they are,” Metatron growls.

“No,” Castiel says slowly. “I don’t think you are. You want something, and it’s tied up with my and Gadreel’s pasts. What do you _want_?”

Leaning forward, Metatron folds his hands together. “In centuries of consuming humanity’s stories, I’ve learned one thing: the foreshadowed end _has_ to happen. Evil must be defeated-- but not too easily, of course-- by the chosen one. Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, whatever. Someone will lead the dark army, while someone else protects the bearer to the end of the map.”

“You want me to protect the bearer?”

“What? _No_. You lead the dark army, standing between me and a unified, peaceful, Heaven,” Metatron says scornfully. “ _Gadreel_ will protect the bearer.”

“Doesn’t the Emperor normally die in some terrible overdone battle because he failed to account for any resistance at all?” He’s certain that’s how most of those movies ended. Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not going to sacrifice myself on the altar of your ego.”

“This is the only way. I’m not asking you to die, just lead those who are discontented.”

Castiel refuses. He won’t be a pawn to Metatron’s obsession.

* * *

Charlie shakes her head as she walks down the stairs and Kevin curses quietly. “They’re gone?” he asks, setting down his notes.

Charlie sighs, tossing her suit jacket over the back of a chair. “All human remains, or the piles of ash the Feds _think_ are human remains, have been taken to a few different area morgues. They’re slowly releasing bodies to survivors, but the ash…”

“Can’t be identified, so there’s no way to know where Henry’s remains are,” Kevin finishes with a sigh. “Shit. I was hoping you’d have some good news.”

“That bad?” Charlie sighs, pulling a chair away from the table and slumps into it. “How the patient doing?”

Kevin snorts. “Still complaining about being confined to bed.”

“So avoid that corridor unless I want to get bitched out for their fuck ups. Great. Anything else?”

“I think I figured out why the First Blade plus Dean were setting off the wards?” Kevin says hopefully. “Not that it means anything good, but at this point, I’ll take any win I can mark on the board.”

Charlie looks at him for a moment before shaking her head. “Yeah, I want a beer before you make today even worse. C’mon.”

She blindly twists the top off two beers and passes him one, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon.

“Uh…”

“Drink it. You deserve it at least as much as I do.”

“Right. So uh, short version: The wards are designed to keep anything above a certain level of demonic out. Which means there’s probably at least one other Bunker-type place out there, where they could raise or lower the wards at will, holding the really evil shit.” Kevin frowns, thinking about how that would work. “You can probably make that happen with--”

“Not now, Kev,” Charlie cuts him off. “Theoretical applications of warding later. So when Henry said the greatest collection of supernatural artifacts ever seen… Was he wrong, or?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of bad shit in here, but not _demonic_ bad shit. Lots of bad, cursed, or just plain weird. Hell, there might be a limit on how angelic something can be too and I just haven’t found it. Not like angels were common when they were building this place.”

“Cas can get in.”

“Yeah, precisely,” Kevin wrinkles his nose. “Anyway, demonic evil. There’s not a lot of that around, thankfully, even if we don’t know where it is. The First Blade though… it’s the _definition_ of demonic. Lilith predates it, but not by much.”

“Is there any way this doesn’t end with the only reason Dean was allowed in is because he was half dead?”

“Not because he was half dead, but because he’s no longer connected to the First Blade. As in, it’s no longer on this plane of existence.”

“Awesome,” Dean cuts in behind them.

Kevin spins around to look at Dean. “Why are you up? Dammit, Dean--”

Dean leans heavily against the door frame, awkwardly avoiding putting pressure on his shoulder and bad leg. “I’m fine. See? Standing and everything.”

“Sit down,” Charlie orders. “You’re never going to heal if you keep reopening that shit.”

“I’m fine, stop fussing.” All the same, he limps to the kitchen table and levers himself down.

“Fine, huh?” Kevin asks wryly. “Sure looks fine.”

“Shut up.” Dean reaches over, snags Kevin’s beer. “Anyway, you were saying about my shitty tattoo?”

“Pretty sure brand would be more accurate,” Charlie says, grabbing Dean’s arm and yanking it across the table. He twitches when she runs a finger near the Mark. “Yeah. A couple of my Moondoor guys are hella into body mods. That’s a fucking brand, dude.”

“Whatever. That matters how?” Dean jerks his arm away, hastily rolling his sleeve down. “Kev?”

“You’re not connected to the Blade anymore. Probably because it disappeared after your fight with Abaddon.”

“It didn’t disappear, I know exactly where it went. And it can stay there, be someone else’s problem.”

“And you’re… okay with that?” Kevin asks tentatively.

Dean shrugs, wincing. “I don’t feel an overwhelming urge to take a swan dive after it.”

“Great!” Charlie pushes away from the table. “In that case, we’ll let that part of this mess go for right now.”

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly. “Any sign of Cas? Not that he needs to show up or anything, I just--”

“No. But on the other hand, there’s no sign he was one of the angels who died, either.”

“So he’s just missing. Great.” Dean steals another swig of beer. “Cas is missing, Henry’s dead, and I’m fucked. Totally worth getting out of bed for.”

“We’ve been trying to keep you in it,” Kevin points out. “How did you get past Sam anyway?”

“He’s not as light of sleeper as he thinks he is.” Dean sighs, looking towards the doorway. “Figured I should let him sleep while he could.”

“Dean?”

“I’m already antsy, ready to get out of here. What do you think another couple days of enforced vacation are going to do?”

“I’ll bring you a book,” Charlie says sharply. “You’re not leaving the Bunker anytime soon, even if I have to handcuff you to a bed.”

“Pretty sure he’d enjoy that, Red,” Dorothy says from the doorway. “He seems like the type.”

Kevin laughs at Dean’s panic, stealing back his beer and grinning. “This is _not_ what I expected Dean Winchester to get flustered about.”

Dean grimaces before pushing himself back to his feet. “Fine, I’ll go back to bed. I mostly was searching for a laptop anyway.”

Kevin watches him go, smile dancing on his face until there’s no chance Dean can overhear them. “So… anyone else worried about that fucking knife?”

“Yeah,” Dorothy breathes. “I am. Nothing good has ever come of it.” She grins, bright and fake. “Only Dean and Cain can use it, however, so its impact on Hell should be minimal.”

“I’m betting Crowley’s big man on campus again and he’ll find a way.”

The girls shake their heads-- Charlie more certain than Dorothy-- before their little kitchen party breaks up. Dorothy and Charlie chatter as they head towards some random place in the Bunker while Kevin slowly cleans up the empty beer bottles.

He’s been trying to avoid it, but it’s time to dive back into the tablet. The situation with the Mark isn’t going to stay sustainable for long, and he’d rather work on it here-- surrounded by wards and concrete and hunters-- than when he’s in school.

* * *

Dean lasts another three days before he starts contemplating going after a vampire nest alone. It’s not that far, it wouldn’t take very long, but… he’s pretty sure Sam and Charlie are already on it. Dorothy too, if she’s not hanging out with Gavin, helping to get him acclimated to the twenty-first century. So he goes looking for something else.

The case is thin when he finds it-- drunks are the worst witnesses-- but a bit of digging finds a pattern. Even better, Oklahoma’s close enough he can get there and back before anyone even notices he’s gone.

Central Kansas and eastern Oklahoma are boring enough during the day, with company. At night, following the interstate, it’s worse. He pulls off the road south of Wichita to take a quick nap and pull out the last of the stitches holding his chest together. He leaves the rest stop with the truckers, pulling ahead in the gray pre-dawn and finishing the drive by mid-morning.

The diner has a line out the door, men half dressed in their Civil War battle uniforms, chatting amicably about their plans for the afternoon’s battle. Despite knowing that he was walking into a reenactment, it’s bizarre to see guys in a hundred-fifty year old uniforms clustered around cellphones and tablets, clutching cups of coffee from the gas station down the street.

Lurking at the back of the line, Dean shamelessly eavesdrops on the folks around him, hoping someone will give him more than what he picked up online. It pays off eventually, a couple of guys complaining about their lack of sleep and ruined breakfast at camp.

“What happened?” Dean interjects, trying to come across as bored and friendly. He already doesn’t fit in with these guys, he doesn’t need to be labeled as a creeper too. “I heard about something weird happening, but didn’t get much in the way of details.”

“The tent next to us ran into camp screaming bloody murder last night, again, claimed they saw troop movements in along the road.” Guy scowls, glancing at the line into the diner.

“Not their normal behavior?”

“No idea, they’re new.” He shrugs.

“But before you get your hopes up for a ghost, they were also nine sheets to the wind,” his friend says. “Idiots, the lot. You can’t get that drunk and then wear a wool uniform in July heat.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Did they say troop movements for what?”

Both guys shrug, accepting a coffee refill from a server moving down the line. “No idea. Not the first time someone’s said this field is haunted, but they say that about all the battlefields.”

* * *

Castiel shudders back to wakefulness, what little grace he has left screaming. It hurts, whatever _it_ is, parts of his grace ripping away, taking with it things he didn’t even realize he could lose.

He falls to his knees, pain washing over him in jagged waves. He’s vaguely aware of guards coming and going, murmured reports at the doorway to his cell to angels further up the hierarchy. The pain continues for hours, days, slowly settling into a sharp burn instead of mind bending agony.

Eventually, he can feel someone nearby, their careful limbs manipulating him and his grace, slowly stitching together what can be saved. Healing hurts, but it’s a drop in the bucket of the vast nothingness his true form has collapsed into.

“I can’t heal this,” someone says over his head. “His grace is torn to shreds, there’s nothing to heal.”

“Unacceptable,” Gadreel rumbles next to him. “X requires him whole and sane.”

The other angel-- Ephraim, Castiel realizes, one of the youngest of the Rit Zien-- curls his grace through Castiel’s true form, searching for something. “Find the rest of his grace and there’s a _chance_ he will recover, but the chances are low.”

“Do you even know what caused this?”

“How is Dean Winchester these days? His soul and Castiel’s grace have been intertwined for years. If something happened to Dean--”

Cracking his eyes open, Castiel watches panic wash over Gadreel’s face. “I must consult with X,” Gadreel stammers out, rushing from Castiel’s cell and disappearing.

“I don’t feel insane,” Castiel says conversationally, confident without reason. “Just--” empty, lonely. The pain slams into him over again, burning like Hell. “Oh.”

“How much of your grace was holding Dean’s soul together?”

Shrugging, Castiel winces at the fresh burn. “How would I know? He was given unto me to shepherd and watch and I have done my best to do so.”

Ephraim crouches on the floor next to him. “Too much, Castiel. Far too much. There’s a reason for the prohibitions on lying with humans. If we cannot pull that grace back to you--”

“Then I’ll die as he dies.” Bracing himself, he levers himself upright, leaning heavily against the wall. “So be it.” It does provide a neat solution to avoiding Metatron’s plots and snares.

Ephraim looks at him for a long moment before nodding. “Have your guards call for me when you’re ready.”

Castiel nods slowly, bracing himself against the rising pain.

* * *

Ignoring his phone as it rings, _again_ , Dean drops his equipment at the top of the ridge, watching the road below for movement. The reenactor camp, little over a half mile away, is still raucous with victory, but starting to quiet down as it gets later into the night, gradually leaving Dean in silence.

The fire starts small, a tiny pinprick of light just on the other side of the ridge, in the middle of the small cemetery. Dean watches it carefully-- it might just be more idiots out for a good time-- as the light grows and then the noise fills in. Low laughter fills the night, and the sound of cooking pots and quiet chatter amid the handful of men setting up camp.

Grimacing, he pushes himself up and over the ridge, hopping over the low stone wall with a quiet groan.

A shot rings out, splinters of stone flying a few feet away. Dean curses, ducks behind a nearby tombstone. Peeking out, he watches a couple of men turn toward him while a third reloads his rifle.

“Some rebel spy would be my guess,” mutters the rifleman. “Find him. He can’t--” he cuts off as his compatriots flicker, jumping fifteen feet and appearing next to Dean.

One of them grabs his shirt with an unsettlingly firm grip for someone who’s been dead for well over a century and drags him from his hiding place, tossing him towards the fire.

He lands awkwardly on his arm, pain shooting up into his shoulder. Biting his lip, Dean carefully reaches up to check the barely healed gash on his chest only to have his hand slapped away by the taller of the two who found him.

“None of that.” Reaching down, he yanks the hunting knife from Dean’s belt, balancing it quickly and flinging it into a nearby tree. It sticks deeply, light glinting off it as it quivers. “Found him, Lieutenant. Rebel spy, just like you said.”

“Hold up,” Dean starts, scrambling to his knees. “I’m not a spy dammit, I’m not part of this. Certainly not some fucking racist asshole.” He can feel blood dripping down his arm. If he’s not careful, he’s going to run into trouble beyond getting captured by a couple of ghosts.

The lieutenant snorts. “That’s what they all say.” All three of them flicker angrily, before re-solidifying. “Tie him up, he can’t be allowed to tell his company where we are. We’ll deal with him tomorrow.”

Lashed to a headstone with ropes he can’t slip, he drifts. Nothing about this makes sense-- Ghosts don’t act like this, don’t react to new variables with planning, certainly don’t tie hunters up to _wait_. It’s almost like they’re alive again, just without their bodies.

They’re a whole new level of freak that Dean has no idea how to deal with.

More ghosts appear as the night passes, a full platoon slowly appearing out of the darkness and forming up in ranks. By dawn, he’s lost track of how many are gathered around the cemetery, just rows upon row of heads.

Bugles ring out across the field at dawn and the ghosts stand at attention, completely ignoring Dean. Waving his forces forward, the lieutenant stays back, digging his fingers into Dean’s shoulder, somehow more solid in the early morning light.

“A doomed column,” he says conversationally. “The rebels, I mean. They’re not prepared for us, their powder wet from yesterday’s rain… No engagement is ever certain, but without you, they don’t even know we’re here.”

Frowning, Dean cranes his neck to look up at him. “How are you doing this?”

“History may forget us, but the righteousness of our cause will not.” Stepping away from Dean, the lieutenant pulls the pistol from his belt, checks the cylinders, and fires.

The bullet punctures Dean’s chest, dragging shards of bone with it as it tears through his heart.


	31. Chapter 31

“Hey, Kev, you awake?” Charlie knocks on Kevin’s door, double checking the time on her phone. “I thought we’d go school shopping today.”

He cracks open the door, peering out of the darkness with bleary eyes. “It’d be easier to order it online.”

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t get you out of here in a non-crisis situation.” Sighing, she pushes the door open further. Kevin’s room isn’t a disaster-- although she wouldn’t blame him if it was-- but it does have the particular funk of teenage boy. “When was the last time you aired this place out?”

Kevin shrugs, turning back to the desk he dragged in, a laptop open and flashing a video game. “We’ve been kinda busy.”

Charlie crosses her arms. “Well, c’mon. Get cleaned up and we’ll head out.”

“Online ordering.”

“Fresh air and people, Kevin. It’s good for you. You gotta get used to people beyond your family again if you’re gonna manage college.”

Kevin huffs grumpily, grabbing his towel and shower stuff. “Fine. Give me thirty minutes.”

Grinning triumphantly, Charlie knocks on the doorway. “I’ll have coffee ready for you!” Kevin flips her off before heading to the showers.

“What’s got you so cheery this morning?” Dorothy asks, hunched over a cup of coffee in the library. “Did you find something to do?”

“I thought you and Sam were going to go take out those vampires?” Charlie asks. “I’m dragging Kev shopping for school. Taking Gavin too, so he can figure this shit out too.”

“Sam and I are leaving in a bit. Any idea where Dean disappeared to?” Dorothy leans back in her chair, twisting around to watch Charlie.

“His text said he was looking for Cas.” Charlie shrugs. “Something about being bored. Gotta trust him to know his limits.”

Dorothy glances down at the notepad at her elbow, the open page filled with notes about what’s going on in the world. “After this hunt...”

“You still want to go back? I thought maybe since the witch was dead--”

“The war will never end,” Dorothy says sadly. “Every time we get close, someone interferes, restarts the whole mess.”

“And you want to go back?” Charlie bites her lip, shaking herself. “Of course you do.”

Dorothy huffs. “I’m useless here, except as a hanger-on. At least leading Ozma’s armies, I’m accomplishing something important.”

“If you’re not happy, I’m sure we can find--”

“Charlie, _no_. I want to go home. I’ve spent more of my life in Oz than I have here, all my family is dead…” She shrugs sadly. “Whoever said you can’t go home again was right.”

“I get it.” Charlie wraps an arm around Dorothy’s shoulders.

Sam stumbles into the kitchen a few minutes later as Charlie is digging through the cabinets for a travel mug for Kevin. “Morning. Charlie, Gavin’s looking for you. Wouldn’t say why.”

Charlie sighs, thrusting the cup towards Sam. “Make Kev’s coffee first. We’re already running late. Then whatever you need to do.”

“Char?” Sam asks behind her.

She waves him off, heading towards the living quarters again. Because she’s apparently become den mom, despite all her efforts to _not_ do that.

“Gavin? Sam said you were looking for me?”

“I had a question and Dorothy said to ask you,” he says quietly, sitting against the wall outside his room. She has no idea why he didn’t just come find her but whatever. He’s at least dressed.

“Great. You can come with us,” she says impatiently.

“I don’t want to intrude on your time with your beau--”

“My _what_?” she screeches, too loud.

“You and Kevin are courting, correct?”

“Uh, no. There is nothing going on between me and Kev. Never will be.” Reaching up to rub her temples, Charlie pushes it aside. “For one thing, he’s far too young for me.”

“Ten years is not unreasonable.”

“Depends on the ten years, my dude. You got your stuff? Let’s go.”

Kevin is curled around his coffee in the map room, glaring at Charlie like she killed his puppy when they come in. “Again, doing this online. Much easier.”

Frowning, Charlie herds Kevin and Gavin ahead of her. “You’ve been begging for months to get outside. What gives?”

“Yeah, and you know what happened the first time I did? Abaddon. Thousands of people killed for what? Because she wanted to control Hell? What’s so great about it?” He flings his hands out, splashing coffee on the walls before curling back in on himself.

“Do you really think I would let something happen to you?”

“Would you have a choice?”

“Kev--”

“I also would try to protect you. I’m intimately familiar with the sort of young man who wander the docks, looking for trouble,” Gavin adds.

“It’s not _humans_ that I’m worried about,” Kevin says bitterly, climbing into the passenger seat of her car.

“Alright,” Charlie cuts them both off. “It’s not going to be a problem because you’re not going get hurt. Because no one is going to find us. You’re being paranoid.”

“Charlie, I--”

“I literally just got back from a war zone, kid. If I can face corporate America, so can you.”

Turning the car south, she headed towards Smith Center, dragging them with her. It’s nice that she can convince everyone they’re doing this for Kevin’s benefit, when really she just wants to get away.

She never should have brought Dorothy back with her. Years in Oz made her sentimental, wanting to bring home her own war bride, even though they both knew they weren’t forever. So she convinced Dorothy to come home one final time, only to have their tentative maybe shatter against the sharp points of Winchester bullshit.

Charlie is a strong, independent woman who don’t need to (wo)man, but… she hurts, even as she hides it away, pretends nothing is wrong. It’s the only thing she can do.

Firmly pushing it aside, she glances at Gavin in the rear view mirror and Kevin beside he and focuses on today’s task.

* * *

“I can’t believe you didn’t think about this before we left,” Kevin sighs before pointing at their next turn. “Or that their market penetration is so bad out here.”

“It’s not like I grew up in the middle of nowhere,” Charlie snarls. “I figured it’d be a drive-- we don’t even get good phone signal outside the Bunker for fuck’s sake-- but no, I was not anticipating having to drive halfway across the entire state.”

Kevin grumbles, sparing a glance towards the backseat where Gavin looks slightly green-- turns out sailors can get car sick-- before finally spotting the logo a couple blocks away. “ _Finally_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie snarks. “Gavin, you up for food or do you want to let your stomach settle?”

“I want out of this infernal machine. The rest is immaterial.”

“Someone’s grouchy,” Kevin sing songs. “I want to stretch. Store first, then food. Not pizza.”

Rolling her eyes, Charlie pulls into the parking lot, dragging them all into the giant box store. As much as he’s complaining, Kevin really does need the basics and maybe if he can avoid feeling like he’s being watched, this will even be fun.

While they’re in the store, they pick up a bunch of stuff for Gavin-- the kid needs a supply run even more than Kevin-- but he has to be poked and prodded into making any decision at all. The longer they’re out and about, the quieter and more withdrawn he is, the more he looks around with wide eyes at the sheer amount of… everything.

Blowing out a breath, Kevin pushes his paranoia to the side and pulls out his phone. “Ok, you’re more used to wearing stuff like this, right?” He tilts his phone towards Gavin, showing a guy dressed for some Ren Faire or SCA event.

“Aye,” Gavin says quietly. “Although that appears to be much nicer than anything I wore.”

“Ok.” Pushing Charlie to the side, Kevin ignores the jeans and t-shirts on the racks, tossing a knock-off work coat into the cart and handing a Gavin a peacoat. “Try that on.”

“Pants?” Charlie asks impatiently. “Shirts that actually fit?”

“Find a farm supply store,” Kevin snaps. “It’ll be cheaper and the cuts won’t be as weird.” Charlie and Gavin both stare at him. “I had friends who did Ren faire, okay? Back when I was allowed to have friends.”

“Kev--”

He waves Charlie off. He’s not as pissed about it anymore, and he’ll have plenty of opportunity to make new friends in about a month. “Whatever. Point is that a farm supply store will have closer to what Gavin’s used to.” He snorts and looks at Charlie. “Unless you want to sew it all, Queen of Moons.”

Gavin looks dubiously at the packages of boxers and socks already in the cart. “I’m willing to trust you on this.”

“Fine.” Charlie throws up her hands and backs the cart of of the aisle. “We need anything else while we’re here?”

Kevin looks over the cart and his half-assed list before shaking his head. “I think we’re good. Gavin?”

“Everything I require is ready.”

“Right, paying for this, then early dinner, then Tractor Supply. I had no idea you two would be more of buzzkill while shopping than Dean.”

“You love us anyway.” Kevin grins wildly.

“I know,” Charlie blurts out, before frowning. “That worked better in my head. Anyway, lupper. Sushi, pizza, or BBQ? BBQ is probably closer to what Gavin’s used to, or pizza, but…” She babbles on, lost in her own head.

Kevin ignores her, dragging the cart to the front of the store and pushing her ahead of him. “Not pizza. And I really doubt a BBQ joint is going to have vegetarian options, Charlie.”

“When did you become a vegetarian?”

“I was vegan for years. It’s only this supernatural bullshit that’s got me to vegetarian,” he points out. “I don’t think eating shitty hot dogs when I’m living on a houseboat in the middle of the Ozarks counts.”

“So every time you’ve cooked--”

“I’ve accomplished the impossible: gotten Dean Winchester to eat mostly vegetables, and sometimes even ask for seconds.”

“It was very good,” Gavin says beside them. “Much better than what I eat on ship. And the beer doesn’t go bad.”

“Food science has come a long way in the last couple of centuries,” Kevin starts. “And global trade--”

“Yeah, whatever,” Charlie cuts him off with a smile. “You’re going to force Gav here to eat sushi?”

“Gavin’s been a sailor most of his life, I’m sure he’s eaten weirder things than sushi. More to the point, _I’m sick of pizza_.”

“I can eat anything that is fit for human consumption,” Gavin says confidently. “Don’t worry about me.”

“If you say so. It’s not too late to get fried chicken-- Abilene isn’t that far away, I’m sure we can squeeze in.”

“Charlie, we’re not driving a million more miles for fried chicken. I don’t care how good it is.”

“It’s not a million miles. Like… thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. And the sides are vegetarian… I think. Pretty sure.”

“No!”

They continue bickering, even dragging the cashier into it-- he votes for Applebee’s, and is summarily ignored-- before reaching the car.

They get sushi. Gavin doesn’t love it, but deems it acceptable. Kevin tries to be gracious.

* * *

Sam stumbles back from the vampire, tripping over debris and nearly falling. He rolls with it, ducking to the side and out of the vampire’s way.

The vampire pauses for a microsecond before launching himself at Sam, fingers outstretched and fangs bared. Yanking his machete up, Sam shouts with the shock of it hitting bone. Mad with bloodlust, the vampire keeps straining forward, against the machete embedded in its chest.

Dorothy yells something a few yards away. He can barely see her among the corn, and definitely can’t see what she’s fighting. Jerking his attention back to the vampire on top of him, Sam pulls the machete free with a sickening crunch, rolling them over and taking off the its head.

He desperately sucks in air before jumping to his feet and dashing towards Dorothy.

A fourth-- fifth? He’s lost count-- appears out of nowhere, pushing him against the corn row, where Sam can’t break through easily. Tightening his grip on his machete, Sam swings it around. It skates along the vampire’s jaw, taking a huge flap of flesh with it.

The vampire screams as blood pours into her mouth, frothing with spittle and spraying across Sam’s chest. Shuddering, he jerks the machete free and tries again, sending her head-- and a few stalks of corn-- flying down the row.

“Dorothy?” he yells, jumping over the body.

“Here, Sam,” she shouts back, calmly, like there’s nothing wrong at all. Maybe by her standards, there isn’t-- fighting a war in Oz is completely different than a handful of vampires along an interstate. “Two down.”

Sam stumbles out of the corn, into the small clearing near the cellphone tower’s base. “Where are you?” he shouts.

He can only hear the highway noise for a moment, barely muffled by the corn, before a head comes bouncing out from the corn, blood all over its face. “Here,” she calls cheerfully, emerging with a wild grin on her face, leaning down to wipe the blade clean on the corpse’s shirt. “Is that all of them?”

Sam shrugs, trying to count. “We saw five. I took care of two, you had three?” She nods. “Then, yeah. Unless we missed one.”

“Which wouldn’t be hard,” she points out. “They’ve got a pretty good setup here. Who’s going to notice if a few drivers go missing? People go missing all the time.”

“Fewer than you’d think,” he says absently. “People who go missing tend to be taken instead of walking away. There’s a few, but those are mostly during catastrophes.” Frowning, he shrugs and shakes his head. “We can stick around for another day, see if we missed anything. Help me get the bodies deeper into the field.”

“We should burn them,” Dorothy points out, grabbing an arm and hitching the vampire half up her back. “We don’t need to ruin the farmer’s day.”

“Lets get clear of the highway first.”

It takes them the rest of the afternoon to get the bodies piled up in the dry creek bed that runs through the field. The sun is setting before Sam tosses a lit book of matches into the pyre, hoping that the trees will break up the smoke enough for it to blend in with the clouds above.

Dorothy scrubs her hands clean with some water, shedding her shirt and tossing it on the fire without a second thought. Slowly, Sam does the same. His jeans are probably a loss too, but he keeps them on-- corn leaves are sharp.

“You alright?” he asks, watching Dorothy shiver despite the heat. “I can watch this if you want to head back to the car, get some fresh clothes.”

She shrugs, glancing around and smiling sadly. “I never really expected to come back here, you know. Even before I left the first time, South Dakota was…” she huffs. “South Dakota. Homesteads and farming. Folks kept fleeing west, pretending that owning a farm in the middle of nowhere would solve all their problems. And when the store failed, off we went back to Chicago. The greatest thing Dad ever did for me was failing to keep quiet about the old men.”

“So you scandalized them all.”

“Someone had to do it. Every time I came back, it was the same routine, first with Dad, then with the others.”

“And now they’re all dead and you’re still here.”

“And in an era when Boston marriages are common even.” Picking up a fallen branch, she pokes a head deeper into the flames. “This isn’t home anymore. Charlie thought maybe, but--”

“I get it,” Sam says quietly. “You can’t go home again.”

“And Ozma still needs help.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Dorothy. Head back whenever you want. If they need you, they need you.”

“Or I need them.”

Sam shrugs, moving up wind from the smoke and smell.

* * *

The pain stops eventually-- Castiel has lost track, trapped in his dying grace to be bothered with the passage of linear time. Coming back to consciousness is like swimming through murky water, groping along with numb fingers and senses, starved for air. Something is following him, huge and dark and _hungry--_

Gasping, he jerks upright, trying to get away from the thing haunting his nightmares.

The thing that has Dean, that killed him, stalks through Castiel’s dreams. He doesn’t mention it to Ephraim, doesn’t even mention the dreams, lest the Rit Zien take things into his own hands. Between the handcuffs and the parts of his grace ripped away with Dean’s death, he’s practically human. It will take almost nothing to offer him mercy when he doesn’t want it, to kill him with a thought.

It’s possible he’s in greater danger now than he was when Metatron was offering his ridiculous deal.

“It’s not too late, brother,” Gadreel says quietly from the doorway. “Play your role and--”

Castiel has no idea how long he’s been there. “And what?” he asks harshly, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. “And your master will restore the grace I have lost? Will bring back Dean? Metatron doesn’t have that sort of power and you know it.”

“There are limits, Castiel, to what you can survive without assistance.”

“Then let me return to Earth, where I can survive as I wish to survive.”

“I don’t understand why you are refusing X’s offer. Survive, shape Heaven into the place it was always meant to be.”

Sadly, Castiel shakes his head. “Metatron doesn’t want an uncorrupted Heaven, Gadreel.” He glances over at him. “He is just as corrupt as any of the archangels, just more creative.”

Gadreel walks away, exiting the cell without another word. Castiel sighs, looks at the cell door, and wishes, not for the first time, that they would at least remove the handcuffs binding him into his vessel.

* * *

Hanging up his phone, Crowley frowns into the distance. Dean’s not answering, still. A few days of no contact isn’t unusual under normal circumstances, but this _isn’t_ normal circumstances. This is the week after Dean killed a Knight of Hell, causing a huge shake up in the power structure of the universe.

The Winchesters should be begging him to take control of Hell. Instead, Crowley’s hanging out in a mid-range hotel, making small deals with the locals, and watching classic movies. _There’s something wrong_.

“Juliet?” he calls. “Time to go hunting.”

She bounds out of the room in an instant, chasing across the road almost faster than he can keep up, the black dog Castiel rescued joining her on the other side of the highway. Moving more sedately, Crowley climbs into his SUV and takes off down the road, trusting the dogs will follow. They could both use a good run anyway.

The tracker on Dean’s car puts him about half a day’s drive away, in some nowhere Oklahoma town. Probably a hunt to distract him from whatever manpain he has going on now.

Crowley snorts, pressing harder on the gas pedal and taking advantage of not being hunted in Hell to take a few shortcuts.

The Impala is parked by the diner on the north side of town, near the only motel, but-- judging from the ticket tucked under the wiper-- hasn’t moved in a couple days. Which is… odd. Dean normally lavishes attention on the thing, loving it than any partner.

“Find Dean,” Crowley orders Juliet where she sits attentively near him. “Bring him back here.”

Juliet and Dog bark before racing off into the fields that surround the town. Between the two of them, this shouldn’t take very long.

The coffee in the diner is terrible, the eggs-- only ordered for appearances anyway-- rubbery and tasteless, and the bacon nearly burnt. He should have just waited in the car, surely Dean has found some place better than this.

Juliet whines when she comes back, stinking of mud and wood smoke and the acrid tang of black powder over top it all. That’s alarming enough, but Dog…

Hunters have forgotten the original purpose of black dogs after spending generations of only seeing the ones that have gone mad. Crowley hasn’t, he still remembers their purpose, has experienced their rage while attempting to drag a soul under their protection to Hell.

Dog bares her teeth, ghostly fur raised along her spine, growling. Juliet joins in after a moment.

“Show me.” Crowley tosses a couple bills down on the table and follows the dogs to Dean.

A gunshot wound gapes open in the center of Dean’s chest, tattered cloth stiff with blood. He’s tied to a grave marker, the stone split from the impact. Crowley’s seen worse, he’s inflicted worse, but...

Dean Winchester is dead. He died alone, without his family or anyone around, and too long ago to make a deal with a reaper. Fortunately, he doesn’t need to make deals to get what he wants.

Reaching over, Crowley forces Dean’s eyes closed before starting the process of untying him from the grave. He needs to take care of this _now_ , before Sam wonders where Dean’s disappeared to, before Cas realizes Dean’s missing.

Setting Juliet to guard Dean’s corpse, Crowley forces himself back to Hell to search for the First Blade.

Dante wasn’t the first to interpret Hell as layer after layer of tortured souls, nor was Milton’s city incorrect, but the details change, smudge with time. Until someone like Abaddon comes through and smashes it all down to its primal form, sloppy wet mud waiting for someone to reform it.

The towers are gone, merely wreckage scattered across the landscape. A few of the fiefdoms, those with undisputed claim, already are starting to reform into whatever twisted nightmares the duke wishes them to be. Others-- the Pit, Dis, the Crossroads-- wait for someone to take control.

All of Hell waits for someone to take control.

He’s not prepared to retake Hell right now, but the Crossroads, he can deal with. Crowley wipes out the demons crowding around his throne, returning them to the gray mud that coats the landscape. No sense in waiting for one of them to stab him in the back when he has better, more interesting, things to do.

Ordering a few survivors to take stock of what remains and ready a full report, Crowley moves to Abaddon’s rip between Hell and Earth.

The First Blade is caught on a ledge, about halfway down the side of the cavern, next to impossible for anyone to reach. It takes hours to retrieve it, but he doesn’t dare send any of his minions after it. The chances of them getting an idea into their head is too great and if he’s going to rebuild Hell, he needs a place to stand from.

Juliet is still standing next to Dean when Crowley reemerges, growling occasionally when a coyote comes too close, frightening away any predators or scavengers. A rabbit darts away when Crowley approaches, disappearing into the dim summer evening.

Wrapping Dean’s hand around the hilt of the First Blade, Crowley folds it snugly against his chest before stepping back, leaning against a second headstone.

“Your brother, when he figures out what happened, will summon me, try to make a deal. I’m surprised he hasn’t already, honestly. Make a deal-- his soul for your life, around and around, never knowing when to stop.

“You have to believe me, Dean. I truly did not know this would happen. Suspected, yes. Hoped, even. But I didn’t _know_. And I never lied. That’s important.

“There are many tales about Cain, as you can imagine,” he continues conversationally, ignoring the miracle crawling into existence at his feet. “Enemies he fought and killed, angels he vanquished, the wars waged in Lucifer’s name. It’s the first story though-- hidden away under hundreds of thousands of years of demons wagging their tongues-- that’s the basis of everything.

“I never told you that story. Castiel suspected, but you were too busy chasing Abaddon to pay attention. The story goes that Cain was willing to die rather than become the killer the Mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life. He _died_. Except the Mark never quite let go.

“You can see why I never spoke of this. Why set the cat among the pigeons over a rumor, a fairy tale? It wasn’t until you rescued me… No, it wasn’t truly until your body rejected the grace that would save your life… that I began to let myself believe that maybe miracles do come true.”

He pauses for a long moment, staring down at Dean’s motionless face, letting himself see the twisting, roiling soul beneath the placid exterior. The Blade works fast, taking existing taint and using it. Already, it’s accomplished what took _decades_ on the Rack to do.

“Listen to me, Dean Winchester,” he whispers fiercely. “What you’re feeling right now is not death, it’s life. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see, feel what I feel. Let’s go take a howl at that moon.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, inky black staring into the night sky before a sly smile spreads across his face.


	32. Chapter 32

Gadreel stands guard in front of X’s office door, ignoring the other angel-- one of the faction leaders, still wearing her vessel and watching the door carefully-- and eavesdropping on X and Castiel’s conversation through the closed door.

“Is He ever going to meet with the factions?” Hannah asks suddenly, coming up beside him, interrupting some intricate point of logic X is making. “We’ve been permitted to return to Heaven, yes, but other promises were made.”

“He will meet with you in good time, Hannah.”

“Will He? The opening Abaddon carved is still open, awaiting the Rit Zien. He hasn’t made any motion to close it, and when he does--”

“No matter,” Gadreel cuts her off. “The demons won’t dare emerge from there, not at such a site.”

“I think you misunderstand me, Gadreel,” she says firmly. “Demons escaping is not my concern-- I am no warrior. I am, however, concerned for the humans harmed.”

Turning away from X’s door with a growl, Gadreel glares at her. “There will be no new humans harmed because there is no demon brave enough to risk the tear.”

“You are _wrong_ , Gadreel.” Hannah pauses, closing her eyes briefly before continuing, “If X believes the threat of Hell to humanity is over, than I will be returning to Earth immediately. Along with my faction.”

“He has other priorities,” Gadreel says stiffly, suddenly aware of silence in X’s office. “If you’ll excuse me--”

The door flies open before he can reach it, X shouting something incomprehensible-- Hobbits? Isengard?-- as Castiel flies through the doorway, landing in a heap against the far wall.

Ignoring Castiel, Gadreel knocks on the door frame, waiting for X’s acknowledgment. When none comes, he opens the door, frowning.

The office is a wreck, X’s precious books and knick knacks scattered across the room. Leaning against his desk, X takes a sip of amber liquid before motioning Gadreel in. “Close the door,” he orders. “Who was outside with you?”

“Hannah. The penitent faction.” Gadreel looks around the room. “Is there a reason you have scattered your belongings around?”

“Good, good. She’ll take care of informing the rest. That’s a start.”

“He agreed?”

“He will. It’s for the good of Heaven after all.” X shrugs, glances around the room. “Angels must unify behind me.”

“Sir, your belongings?” Gadreel asks again, patiently trying to get him to focus. More and more, this is becoming a problem-- X getting caught up with his plans for a unified Heaven to the exclusion of anything else.

“The rebel trashed my office, Gadreel. Can’t you see?”

“No,” Gadreel says slowly, looking around. “I don’t. Castiel is still restrained, and none of this was done by his hand.”

“It doesn’t matter if he did it or I did, as long as the angels believe _he_ did it. He made an attempt on my _life_ , Gadreel,” X says frantically. “Castiel wants to keep all of us on Earth, among the mud monkeys he favors so much. His plotting has never been about free will, only about protecting humans. This has been his plan from the beginning. Maybe since before the Apocalypse.”

“No.” Gadreel stares at X, watching as he paces back and forth. “It has not. I will guard you, command your armies, but I will not _lie_ for you.”

“Careful, Gadreel,” Metatron sneers. “Lest you find yourself in prison next to the traitor you love so much.”

Turning on his heel, Gadreel marches from the room, only belatedly aware that he never closed the office door behind him when he entered and that Hannah is gone.

* * *

Castiel tilts his head, watching the door, listening to the angels outside his cell. Hannah is arguing with the guards, the volume too low for him to hear.

“Ephraim is busy with other tasks,” Hannah decrees imperiously. “He asked me to check on Castiel.”

He shifts to watch her enter, gasping as his wing drags along the wall behind him. After a moment, the pain is distant, locked away on the other side of the light and allowing him to concentrate.

“Castiel?” she asks, after shooing his guards from the room. “Are you-- alright?”

“Nothing.” He thinks he lifts his shoulders into a shrug, that’s certainly his intent. “Nothing hurts.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Fingers poke and prod at him, pressing into the light. He thinks it should be connected to him, but it feels… alien. If it ever belonged to him, it doesn’t anymore.

“What has Ephraim been _doing_?” Hannah mutters, brushing his hair away from his face. She’s _kind_ , a rarity among angels, he remembers that. “Alright, change of plans.” More light pushes in, reforms and reshapes what was already there.

“Don’t,” he frets, trying to jerk away from her. “You can’t-- I can’t-- _No_. I won’t be his puppet.”

“You don’t have to be.” Dropping his hand, she backs away, frowning. “I’ll be back, Castiel.”

She disappears again, leaving him with the light. He tries to follow it-- the light should lead somewhere, should lead to--

A flash of heat/love/pain quickly followed by revulsion. Whatever is on the other end _hurts_ , pushes him back into his own body. It takes a long time to realize what it is, that the light bridges from him to a human soul that is… damaged and warped. It’s enough to realize what happened.

The Mark has twisted Dean’s soul into something demonic and evil, rejecting whatever residual grace is left in him.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel focuses on what Hannah said-- _he does not have to be Metatron’s puppet_ \-- and tries to put himself back together. He cannot afford to be broken, now. Not with Dean a demon.

A Knight of Hell walks the Earth, untethered by his humanity. And Metatron either doesn’t know or is too arrogant to realize what that means. Acting as Cain’s lieutenant, Abaddon gathered her own power base in Hell, enough to be a threat in her own right. In the end, even Cain wouldn’t face her directly.

What took Abaddon centuries to earn, Dean will have overnight. He defeated Abaddon in combat-- her holdings will pass to him in addition to those he’s won over the years. Ruby, Lilith, and Azazel’s power is already held in his name, and Alistair’s throne in the Pit. Dean is already a power to be reckoned with even without Abaddon. All that power, leashed to Dean’s cleverness? There is no way to know how Dean will change the structure of Hell.

Metatron wants a fake enemy he can control.

He has a real enemy he has no chance of controlling or predicting.

* * *

Gadreel watches Hannah leave the prison cells, moving towards the remnant of her fraction. She’s joined by a few others, discussing something before moving apart. Raising an eyebrow, he lets them spread their little rebellion. He’s confident that her small rebellion won’t go anywhere without Castiel, but better safe than sorry.

X is dangerously overconfident in his ability to predict how things will happen. Gadreel isn’t sure what he means to accomplish by encouraging rebellion, by insisting Castiel will take the lead of it, but it will only take one overzealous angel to put all of Heaven at risk.

Gadreel sighs, glancing around the control room for anyone paying too close of attention to him. He feels just as trapped now as he did during the centuries he was imprisoned. He needs to… do something.

Earth feels achingly empty when he arrives. There’s a handful of angels left on Earth. Loners, who would have fallen long ago if given the chance. He knows he should be either encouraging them to return to the fold or fall entirely, but…

He was convinced, when X found him, that returning angels to Heaven was the best course of action. The more he listens to X’s plans, the more he doubts. Terrifyingly, he _doubts_. Gadreel doesn’t pretend to know the full repercussions of the archangels’ reign in Heaven, but it has to be better than this. It has to have been better than angels lying to each other about their intentions, manipulation at every turn.

Sucking in a breath, he settles back into his vessel with barely a jolt, smoothly taking over the routine of pouring a beer, accepting currency, and handing back change. It’s soothing, despite everything. Freedom despite the limitation of his choices.

Gadreel spends the afternoon serving beer to increasingly drunk patrons before gratefully passing the duty to the bartender that comes in after him-- Sheila, he thinks, but wouldn’t swear to it.

Duties to his vessel complete, he takes flight, returning to the scene of the battle.

It’s abandoned, yellow police tape fluttering in the summer breeze, but no guards or investigators to be seen. Their presence wouldn’t hinder him, but their absence certainly facilitates his own investigation.

The fissure gapes open in evening sun, the deepest parts glowing Hell red. It’s huge, far too big to allowed to stay open, despite X’s instructions to the contrary. There’s no reason for this, it’s against everything Heaven is supposed to stand for.

Gadreel sighs, suddenly feeling achingly human and at a loss to even know where to start.

Ordering the Rit Zien to the rift, he quickly confirms that no demons are present before leaving them to their duties. There’s nothing here to keep them from closing the gash on their own.

* * *

Sam leans against the brick wall of the diner, staring at the passing traffic and trying to figure out where to go next. A traffic camera on the interstate caught the Impala leaving the highway to head into town, and it’d been easy enough to find the hunt Dean was here for but the deaths never stopped-- three more since Dean went missing-- and while the waitress remembers the Impala, she has no idea when it left. She thought it was just one of the reenactors taking advantage of the paved parking.

Unfortunately, after the diner, there’s no sign of him. Sam’s already checked the traffic cameras for fifty miles along the highways and for credit card activity, but none of the ones he has are pinging anywhere.

“Dammit, Cas,” he mutters, reaching up to rub away his headache. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Heaven,” replies a smooth voice from beside him, leaning against the wall like he’s been there for ages. “Imprisoned by the new God.”

Startled, Sam drops his hand to his pocket, tightening around the knife concealed there. “Who are you?”

“No matter. Castiel is in Heaven, and there he will stay. Until he accepts X’s offer and the role he has been offered.”

“Right. Cas. Playing his role. Don’t you assholes ever get a new playbook?” Squinting against the noon sun, he tries to get a clear look at the angel. He feels uncomfortably familiar, like Sam knows him intimately. “Why are you here then? First time Heaven’s ever felt like responding.”

“A war is coming, Sam Winchester. It would be to your advantage to be clear of the fighting.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Sam demands from empty air.

Glaring at nothing, Sam heads back to his car and laptop. There’s no way Dean just disappeared. Which means following his footsteps and retracing everything.

Dean has to be around here somewhere.

It’s just like hunting for Dad all over again, except Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s not actively working to keep him off his tail. Not yet anyway. If Dean starts sending random coordinates, he’ll revisit that theory.

* * *

Boxing the ear of the sixth vampire, Dean waits for it to back off and recover before moving. The entire nest is a _joke_. Seven vampires, and he’s torn through five of them like wet toilet paper.

He wipes the blood splatter from his face with his sleeve, dropping his guard in hopes that eventually, if he gives the vamp enough openings, this will become entertaining.

The seventh vampire launches herself at Dean. Catching the motion in the dull reflection of a window, he sidesteps, pushing her past him and into the vampire still cringing away from boxed ears.

Rolling his eyes, Dean switches the First Blade to his left hand, stretching the fingers on his right briefly before switching back. Rushing ahead, he buries the Blade into the gut of the sixth vampire, jerking it up and to the side. Intestines spill out in a viscous splash, tangling around both vampires’ feet.

Dean smirks as they freeze, eyes wide with fear and pain. He beheads the seventh one first, her head landing in the intestines like a particularly gory plate of spaghetti. The survivor screams, loud and shrill, trapped by his own body with nowhere to run.

“No one’s coming,” Dean says lowly. He can barely hear himself over the screaming, but that scarcely matters. “Even if you manage to fire up that connection to the Alpha, ain’t no one gettin’ here in time to save you.” Tilting his head, he watches for long moment. “Actually, go ahead. Tell ‘em I’m coming. Tell the ‘wolves too.”

“You can’t kill all of us,” the vampire whispers shakily. “Hunters have tried before.”

“They don’t have what I’ve got.” Dean reverses his grip on the Blade, separating the vampire from his head. The head bounces along the floor before coming to a stop resting against another corpse.

Dean glances over, snorts at the placement-- blow job central over there-- and leans over to wipe the worst of the blood from the teeth of the Blade. The blood along the bone has already soaked in, absorbed by whatever magic it is that keeps the Blade sharp and together.

Slow measured claps come from the direction of the door. Spinning around, Dean reaches for the second knife at his belt before rolling his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to get your hands dirty on a simple vampire hunt?” Dean asks sarcastically.

“I didn’t, and I don’t.” Holding up his clean hands theatrically, Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You left this morning.”

“Yeah, I do that.” Glancing around, Dean shrugs lazily. The room is a loss, probably the entire building. Blood everywhere, four bodies in here, and three more scattered throughout the rest of the house in various stages of dismemberment. He really should care about the potential for some go-getter FBI asshole getting back on his trail, but…

He doesn’t. If they come near him, he’ll kill them. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

“Dean, are you even listening to me?” Crowley asks impatiently.

“Something something, leaving too much evidence behind, whatever.” Dean waves a hand vaguely. “I don’t care.”

“Bully for you.” Crowley opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but Dean pushes past him before he can. “Dean--”

“You wanted me out of here, so let’s go.”

“The dive in town, there’s a hunter.” Crowley’s hand snaps up, grabbing his elbow.

“Like I’m going to let some pissant hunter scare me out of _my_ bar.”

“Need I remind you of the meaning of discretion? You’re a _wanted_ man. The fewer people know where you are, the better.”

Sneering, Dean jerks his arm free and stalks out of the house. The Impala is parked right where he left it, a couple hundred feet from the door. He leans against it for a couple minutes, trying to decide if it’s worth the effort to burn or if the joke of a sheriff’s department will even think to run forensics.

Cops are more trouble than they’re worth, might as well burn the place.

A few minutes and a couple gallons of kerosene later, Dean tosses a lit book of matches onto the rotting porch. He stays long enough to make sure the entire place is going to burn before climbing into the car and getting back on the road.

Telling himself it’s not because Crowley told him to, Dean bypasses the bar in town, pushes the accelerator to the floor, and heads west. A few days in Vegas, see the sights, enjoy the locals. Hell, he can pull a Thompson and find some races out in the desert. Smoke all those modern bullshit cars.

Juliet lands with a heavy thump on the hood of the car, blocking his view. Dean swerves off the road with a jerk, dust flying as he plows into the dirt covered shoulder.

Climbing out, he glares at her as she sprawls out on top of the car. “The _fuck_ , fleabag?”

Juliet doesn’t respond, can’t even be assed to bark at him, although she does roll over to briefly flash him her belly-- the roof flexing under her weight-- before jumping down and making herself comfortable in the driver’s seat.

“No way. I ain’t sittin’ here waiting while you take a nap, princess,” Dean snaps. “Move or I’ll make you move.”

Juliet lift her upper lips, baring her canines in a half-hearted snarl.

Something keeps him from just knifing her and moving on. It’d be a waste for one, and Crowley, attached as he is to the fleabag, would never forgive him, but there’s something else. Something that has no business in a demon.

Forcing himself to ignore it, Dean grabs a beer from the cooler in the backseat and twists it open. Lukewarm from sitting in the car all day, it tastes even more like piss than usual. He drinks it anyway-- booze is booze-- and leans against the trunk, waiting for Crowley to show up.

“Squirrel, I’m hurt that you didn’t wait for me,” Crowley calls, parking his giant white monstrosity on the side of the road. “Really, I thought we were friends.”

Dean blatantly slides his gaze from Crowley’s face to his chest and lower. “Somehow, I don’t think friends is what you had in mind when you started this trip.”

“Friends with benefits, lovers, butt buddies,” Crowley smirks, tossing his keys towards Dean. “Whatever you want to call it. And no. But I won’t deny it’s a nice benefit.”

Juliet, still lying in the Impala, lifts her head to push it into Crowley’s hand when he reaches the car, forcing him to pet her. “Good girl,” Crowley whispers.

Dean ignores him, still holding the keys to Crowley’s SUV in one hand and thinking. The SUV has nothing connecting him to it. He can just park it and walk away if he needs to. So much easier to blend in than the Impala, and better gas mileage for Nevada where the gas stations in the desert are few and far between.

“Juliet, move,” he orders, enjoying the way her ears suddenly pick up. “We’ve got an errand, then we can fuck off to wherever.”

“And what’s that?” Crowley asks coolly.

“Dropping the boat off someplace obvious.” Dean jerks his thumb towards the Impala. “Unless you really think my dumbass brother isn’t going to be searching for me.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain he is.” Crowley pauses for a moment. “You have all sorts of well-meaning family looking for you.”

“Well, none of them know about your piece of shit, so we’re going to bypass the problem.”

“You’re in charge of this part of the trip, so whatever you want.”

Dean saunters over, pressing Crowley against the rear door of the Impala. Leaning down, he brushes his lips against the shell of Crowley’s ear, whispering, “And what about what _you_ want?”

Turning to capture Dean’s lips, Crowley smirks. “We’ll get to what I want later. Right now, you need to relax.”

Dean hmms his agreement before stepping back. “Later. After we ditch the ‘pala and find a bar.”

“Never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester would voluntarily give up his wheels.” Crowley holds up the keys in his hand, raising an eyebrow.

“Never thought I’d see the day the King of Hell would be panting after a hunter,” Dean shoots back.

Crowley lifts an eyebrow, pushing past Dean. “Who’s panting after who here? Or do I need to get your lover-boy here to talk about what you get up to in the dark?”

“Good luck with that. He disappeared weeks ago,” Dean says bitterly, climbing into the SUV. “I’ll meet you in town.”

* * *

Castiel lets out a broken sob when Ephraim pushes into his cell again, limbs glowing pink.

“Stop, brother,” Castiel pleads. “What you are doing is--”

“Do you even want to be healed?” The pink glow recedes slightly as Ephraim waves a hand, unlocking the handcuffs binding Castiel. “If you continue to fight me, I will be forced to take things into my own hands.”

“You already are,” Castiel hisses. He rolls his shoulders, trying to relax the muscles after being trapped for days. “You claimed I would never recover, yet I am doing so. You claimed I would be trapped, graceless, in a dying body, destined to go insane one way or the other. Yet I am here and the only trap is this cell.”

“I had to,” Ephraim pleads. “You’re damaged, at your very core. There’s so much pain…” he trails off before he looks at Castiel and flinches. “Your grace is a tattered rag that you persist in waving around. It makes me _sick_.”

“Ephraim?” Castiel asks warily, pressing himself against the wall.

“Truly, brother, I am sorry that I was unable to help you, that the strain of abusing your grace in such a way-- bonding with a _human--_ was too much. I shall deliver you from the pain.”

“Brother,” Castiel flinches away from Ephraim, wings beating feebly against the wall.

Ephraim approaches slowly, like Castiel is a wounded animal, his limbs glowing pink with the particular gifts of the Rit Zien.

Breathing out, Castiel pushes past the pain in his cramping shoulders to launch himself past Ephraim. Dodging Ephraim’s wild swings, Castiel winces as his grace wobbles, unmoored, within him. Snapping a wing out, he throws Ephraim into the wall. “I’m not going to sit down and let you kill me, Ephraim.” He follows it up with a punch, trying to force Ephraim to stay down.

Ephraim glares up at him, hands glowing. “Let me help you!”

“This isn’t _helping_ ,” Castiel nearly screams. “It’s not even mercy. This is murder and everything that’s wrong with Heaven. Metatron--” he flings himself out of Ephraim’s path.

Ephraim chokes on nothing, grabbing Castiel’s wing roughly, digging his fingers into the flesh. The agony Castiel had been ignoring doubles and triples, forcing him to his knees, screaming in pain.

The sick pink is overtaken by white, Ephraim’s grace burning against his vessel. Castiel slams his eyes shut, somehow feeling Ephraim’s wings turn to ash against his skin even over everything else.

“Castiel?” Hannah asks, hesitantly. “Are you alright?”

Taking a deep breath, he takes stock, trying to sort new injuries from old. His wing took the brunt of it, a shiny burn patch peeking through the feathers, but other points hurt as well. “Thank you, Hannah,” he manages, trying to push himself back upright.

“You don’t have much time,” she says quietly. “You must return to Earth immediately.”

“What about you?” he asks. “If Metatron finds out that you helped me--”

“He’ll brand me the dark emperor and cast me and mine out.” Hannah sighs, somehow managing to look small, despite her vessel’s height. “I heard him, Castiel. He never had any intention of actually helping humanity or angels. He’s too intent on his… story. I have a plan.”

Silently, he looks at her, watching the flash of emotions across her face. “Hannah…”

She shakes her head. “Not now.”

Nodding his acquiescence, Castiel pushes himself to his feet, trying to brush the ash from his skin. Ephraim’s wing pattern is burned across his shirt, pinprick holes burned through to his skin. “Can you hold your faction together against him?”

“We’ve stayed together through much worse than Metatron’s neglect,” Hannah says stridently. “Angels are supposed to help humanity. We forgot that in our fear.”

“Did you incapacitate the guards?” Castiel glances at the door. At her blank look, Castiel sighs. “What did you tell them when you came in here?”

“That Ephraim requested my assistance.”

Which will buy them some time, but not enough. Snatching the handcuffs from where they lie in the corner, he hands them to her. He tries to shrug the tension from his shoulders again with little success before grinning and crossing his wrists in front of him. “In that case, I have an idea. Wookie.”

“Brother, I have no idea what that means.” Frowning, she raises a hand to his forehead. “Were you injured?”

“No, it’s-- Never mind.” Quickly, he shows her how to wrap the cuffs around his wrists so they’re held in place without actually restraining him.

The guards outside barely look at them, well used to Castiel being dragged before Metatron at this point. She escorts him to a random corridor of Heaven before roughly snatching the handcuffs from his wrists and unceremoniously shoving him through the nearest door.

Castiel stumbles over a toolbox in the dim garage, bumping into the car in front of him and finally tumbling out into the bright sunlight of a summer afternoon. Glancing around, he tries to find the inhabitant while also staying somewhat hidden. Eventually, he spots the man half under a second car-- an old VW bus-- while a pretty blonde woman sits on a blanket under the nearby tree. They chat amicably, ignoring everything around them.

He doesn’t think anything of it, tiptoeing around the edges of the memory, until he catches a glimpse of the woman’s face. Mary Winchester watches him, her head tilted at a familiar angle and her eyes hard.

Alarmed, Castiel steps backwards, trying to avoid calling her attention anymore than he already has. She shouldn’t be able to see him, and yet, her gaze follows him. He’s too far away to hear what she says to the man under the car-- it must be John-- but he slithers out and fixes Castiel with glare.

Breathing out, Castiel squares his shoulders and stops trying to hide.

“Castiel, right?” John calls, his hand hovering at his waist, ready to pull a gun, never mind that he shouldn’t have one. “The angel?”

Nodding hesitantly, Castiel leaves the shade of the garage and approaches them both. “It is an honor to meet you both.”

“Bullshit.” Mary snorts, stepping away from John. “You didn’t even get in here on purpose.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “You are both… unusually aware of your situation.”

“There’s a lot more movement between Heavens than angels expect,” Mary says shortly, leaning against the van and watching Castiel. “Why are you here?”

“How do you know who I am?”

“The same way you know who we are. I can’t imagine the door says Winchester on it,” John says. “I remember this van and someone convincing me to buy an old Impala instead.”

“Dean,” Castiel interjects, for some reason, why? He doesn’t--

“Yeah.” John sighs. “What are you doing here?”

“Escaping. Something… has gone wrong. I’m just passing through.”

“Dean and Sam,” Mary says slowly, like she’s testing the idea. “Castiel, can you--”

Biting his lip, Castiel nods reassuringly. “Of course, I’ll let them know that you’re okay. They’ll understand.”

Mary nods gratefully. John doesn’t look happy about it, but he’s not the focus of Castiel’s attention. John as the man who raised Sam and Dean may have been formed by his experiences, but even knowing that, he’s not Castiel’s favorite human.

“I’m going to…” He gestures towards the horizon. Awkward now, Mary and John watch him as he nods and slips away, further into their heaven, in search of a backdoor.

It takes longer to find than it should. The afternoon sunlight slowly turns golden as the sun slips towards the horizon and then below it before he finds the utility building miles away from John and Mary’s picnic.

He doesn’t dare use his grace, even here, so he picks the lock and carefully steps through.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some homophobic language and slurs below. The folks saying those words get taken care of pretty quickly.

Crowley winces as Dean’s voice goes terrifyingly sharp trying to match Freddie’s range. The crowd boos when Dean fails to hit the note _again_ and the amplified screeching starts a feedback loop. Sighing, Crowley watches the DJ cut the mic, leaving Dean to wail his way through Queen’s back catalog unamplified.

“You suck!” bellows a man across the bar, throwing a handful of peanuts at the stage. Dean ducks out of the way, his eyes flicking black, dropping the microphone.

“Say that to my face, asshole,” Dean yells back, jumping off the stage, ready for a fight.

Crowley drains his shitty beer with another sigh before sliding off his stool to head off the inevitable bar fight.

Peanut thrower pushes to his feet, trying to tower over Dean. “You heard me, fucker. You. Suck.” He taps Dean’s shoulder for emphasis.

“And you’re so much better?” Dean scoffs. “Let’s see it.”

“I ain’t doing any of your faggy shit.”

Crowley stops dead, waiting for Dean’s response, no longer interested in saving Peanut’s face from Dean’s temper.

Dean glances up, meets Crowley’s eyes and nods towards the bar.

Rolling his eyes, he listens to Dean and Peanut exchange threats while settling their tab at the bar. Handing the bartender an overly large tip, Crowley leans against the bar-- well clear of the action-- as Dean goads Peanut into throwing the first punch.

The fight is over quickly-- only three broken glasses and a knocked over table this time. Despite himself, Crowley is reluctantly impressed by Dean’s skill-- Peanut is sprawled across the floor in the space of two hits, head lolling against one of his buddy’s legs, barely conscious.

“Call me a fag again, prick,” Dean gloats, stretching his neck to the side and glaring down.

Cheech and Chong glance down at Peanut before looking up and shaking their heads. They mumble something Crowley can’t hear, Chong planting a hand on Peanut’s shoulder to keep him down.

Dean scoffs, turning on his heel and walking out of the bar. Crowley smirks at the bartender before following.

Dean explodes when they reach the parking lot, grinning wildly. He’s hyped up, adrenaline still looking for release.

There’s a contract due about twenty miles away and while Crowley’s certain it’s too early to start Dean on collections, it’ll keep him out of the fucking dive bars. “If you want to do something productive--”

Dean fists Crowley’s shirt and yanks him close, crowding him against the side of the SUV and kissing him fiercely. Crowley’s mouth goes slack in shock for the briefest of moments before he responds eagerly.

Crowley slides his hands forward, slips down to cup Dean’s ass, reveling in the warm slightly damp press of their lips. He’s dimly aware of Dean pulling the keys from his pocket, but he’s far more focused on the pleasure of Dean’s lips on his.

He barely keeps himself from whining when Dean pulls back, eyes sparkling with lust and teasing. “Let’s go. Got a lot more to do this evening.”

Crowley huffs, pushing Dean away. Contract, redneck bar, North Dakota… “I have some business to attend to before I spend the rest of the night in a dive bar.”

“What sort of business?” Dean asks, licking his lips and pressing their hips together again. “And who said anything about a bar? Because what I have in mind is business…”

“Not that.” Crowley sighs, closing Dean’s hand over the keys where they dangle over a finger. “Hell business, of the collections sort.”

Dean pouts, leans forward to sneak another kiss. “Would rather get a part of you.”

“You can.” Crowley leans back, thunks his head against the glass. “Later.” Laying a hand on Dean’s chest, he pushes him back again. “Take the car, find another bar or whatever. Juliet and I have work to do.”

Dean honest to god _growls_ at Crowley’s insistence, eyes flicking black as he crowds him against the side of the SUV again. “Don’t want a bar.”

“A hotel then. I don’t care.” Stepping out of Dean’s caging arms, Crowley whistles for Juliet. She barks excitedly, just as ready as he is to see something other than rundown country bars and truck stops. Raising an eyebrow at Dean’s half-assed attempt to stop him, Crowley steps into the shadows and across miles of grassland.

It’s too soon to push Dean into soul collection. He never should have brought it up, not yet. Not while Dean is reliving the glory days he never had, some adolescent frat boy fantasy.

Another week maybe. When he’s worked out the ghosts of his lost childhood, and isn’t still trapped by memories and guilt and whatever else.

Juliet bounds ahead, baying as she catches the scent of the contract.

* * *

The bowl in front of him flares up, sparks flying. Expectantly, Sam watches the devils’ trap in front of him, tightening his grip on the knife next to the bowl.

Nothing. The summoning failed.

With a sweep of his hand, he sends the bowl clattering across the concrete floor, smudging the chalk lines of the trap. It rattles to a stop against the wall, ingredients scattered in a smoldering mess. Gritting his teeth, Sam stomps them out before they can set his research on fire.

Not that he’s getting much out of that either.

Near as Sam can find-- just about the _only_ thing he can find-- is that the last time there was a new Knight, Caesar crowned himself emperor. Cain went underground around the same time, resurfacing briefly during the Civil War and then… nothing. Until Abaddon broke free of Hell three months ago, sic’d her weird-ass shedim demons on him, lost, and Cain went looking for backup.

Dean’s not answering his phone, Crowley’s not responding to summons, Cas is god knows where, Charlie, Kevin, and Gavin are preparing to leave… he’s going to be alone again soon. The tension in his chest ratchets up another step, leaving Sam breathless as he looks at piles of useless--

Charlie knocks against the door frame, holding her hands up in defense when he spins around. “Hey, just me.”

“What do you want, Charlie?” Sam mutters, looking around the room, avoiding her.

“I found the Impala,” she says simply. “Abandoned in a Wal-mart parking lot a few days ago.”

“What? That doesn’t--”

“Dunno.” Charlie shrugs, leaning against the doorway. “He wouldn’t leave the Impala voluntarily, and we’ve got zero other leads.” She gestures around the room. “Unless you’ve found something while pulling your wizard act.”

“No,” Sam grinds out, starting to shuffle the shit on the table into a pile. “Nothing. Dean, Cas, or Crowley.” Sam frowns, turning to look at the piles of books scattered around the storage room. “Dean’s done a lot of stupid shit, but he’s never walked away like this.”

“So let’s start with the Impala. You’re not getting anywhere in here.” Charlie grabs his arm, towing him out of the depths of the Bunker and pushing him towards the showers. “But first, you gotta get cleaned up.”

They’re on the road in less than an hour, Sam in the passenger seat of Charlie’s Gremlin, nearly folded in half. Charlie is oddly quiet, bouncing along with the music in the driver’s seat, heading south to wherever she found the Impala.

“How did you find it?” Sam asks out of the blue, somewhere south of Wichita.

“One of my bots,” she says shortly. “Whenever a car matching the Impala’s description hits the Fed’s database…” She reaches over to turn down the music. “One of the few upsides of the Leviathan infiltrating everything-- Once I broke their encryption, I had back doors into the major law enforcement servers. And just about everywhere else.”

“So you… what? Scrub us from the servers every time we get flagged?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” She shrugs, eyes firmly on the road. “The Impala pops up more than you do, she’s distinctive. But yeah. 911 calls about the creepers in the backyard, speeding tickets… all of that shit.”

“Charlie, I... Thank you.”

“Whatever, Winchester. It’s cool. Gives me something to do when I’m not hunting or hacking the world for awesome.”

“If you say so.” Sam stays quiet for a few miles, trying to figure out how to ask his next question before deciding that being blunt is probably the best way. “Are you actually okay with going with Kevin?”

“College is great, college towns are amazing. Kevin’s not doing the whole prophet thing full time anymore and… Sam, Kev _needs_ a break. He’s struggling, far more than you and Dean realize. Hell, I’m struggling and I can walk away whenever I want.”

Great. Another thing for him to feel guilty about. They keep dragging people--

“So college,” she continues. “Kevin gets to have something like a normal life again, I go back to hunting part-time, and Gavin… gets adjusted to the twenty-first century. We all win.”

“You can quit anytime you want. You know that, right?”

Charlie flicks her turn signal on, smoothly changing lanes, before glancing over. “I’ve read the novels, Sam. Even the unpublished ones. And I’ve listened to your stories. Hunters don’t get to retire. At best, I can semi-retire and play bodyguard.”

“That’s not--”

“Fair? True? Yes, and? Gotta do what we gotta do.”

Sam grimaces. “There has to be a better way.”

“You’re doing it. The phone tree you’ve started. Starting to organize hunters so this isn’t the wild west. I spent a lot of time with Dorothy, you know. Hunters working together, outside their families? That’s _new_.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Well sure. You could also try to convince all the vampires and werewolves and ghouls and every other creepy crawly to stop killing people. Demons and angels too. You might as well try to stop the world from spinning, Sam. Bad shit happens to good people. Hunters try to keep worse shit from happening.”

Sam doesn’t have a response. It’s true enough, he knows. But it still feels like a cliche, like something that he should be fixing.

“Anyway, playing responsible adult with Kevin will be fine. I’ve even got a job lined up, helping a friend from before you jerks broke into my apartment.”

“If you say so,” Sam sighs. “Just… call if you help, alright?”

“Sure thang,” Charlie says cheerfully. “I solemnly swear to not be Harry Potter.”

“That’s… less comforting than you probably mean for it to be,” Sam points out, leaning back in his seat as they move to less fraught topics.

* * *

Screw Crowley and his stupid jobs. Dean keeps driving, windows rolled down, wind ripping through the car, long past closing time and even dawn, finding a shithole of a roadhouse to hang out in hundreds of miles away.

Dean is there for less than ten minutes before he’s contemplating starting a fight just to liven the place up a bit. The only reason he doesn’t is because there’s no one worth fighting-- just a bunch of tired truckers and a couple of prostitutes. So he opens a tab and drinks the afternoon away, steadily draining beers and never feeling the effects.

Evening falls before he’s done, chugging his last beer, tossing a couple of crumpled bills on the bartop and heading outside. There has to be a something to do that isn’t… this. Briefly, he weighs hunting down Crowley and Juliet, interrupting them, and dragging Crowley away to some hotel, before shaking his head.

Right now, he doesn’t care that they’re off murdering some sucker and carting their soul to Hell. If he watches it happen… he might care. He might need to _do_ something about it and that would be a drag. Far more of one than just being bored for a few hours.

The door crashes open behind him, raised voices arguing about something. Curious, Dean moves to lean against the back of the car, wishing he had a pack of cigarettes.

“Okay, yeah... We’re done,” the woman says loudly. “Fuck off.”

“That’s the general idea,” the man says, his voice slick with… something. “I can’t wait all night, sweetheart.”

Dean coughs lightly, drawing attention to himself, letting them know that they have an audience.

The man sneers, half hidden in the shadows of the bar. “Hey, jackass, you got a problem?”

“Dunno,” Dean says with a shrug. “You gonna keep putting your hands on her?”

“If you’ve got a problem--”

“Like I said, leave her alone.” Moving faster than the half-drunk scumbag can track, Dean plows his fist into jackass’s face, allowing the bright joy of the fight to overtake him. His hand breaks against the dude’s jaw, but he ignores it.

Dimly, he realizes that the woman is screaming, but he’s busy beating the abusive bullshit out of her companion.

His knees hit gravel as he follows dumbass down, bone shards embedding themselves into his knuckles and--

With a jolt, he comes back to himself, his hands tacky with blood, cut and swollen. The body beneath him is little more than a sloppy smear of meat across the gravel, the woman yelling into a phone a dozen feet away, and everyone coming outside to investigate…

Pushing himself to his feet, Dean sidesteps the grasping hands of someone and _moves_.

He stumbles from worn gravel onto powdery dust, tripping and landing on his knees. A cloud of dust billows up to envelope him, obscuring any landmarks.

Something-- _someone_ \-- makes a small noise nearby.

“My lord?” they say loudly, coughing over the dust. “Welcome back.”

“Back?” Dean coughs, climbing to his feet and out of the dust cloud. Gradually, his eyes adjust to the dim not-light and dust so he can actually see what’s going on. He’s surrounded by vaguely humanoid shapes, some with missing limbs, some with extra, all staring at him with awe and excitement. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Hell shudders around him, transforming before his eyes. Banked embers flare into flames, lighting the plains and shadows of the deepest pits. Power floods in, filling him up and overflowing, twisting the few parts of him that remained untainted...

Oh. He shrugs into the change, shedding a human form like a jacket, relaxing into sudden freedom. Towering over the demons that surround him, he huffs a few times, rearing up onto his hind paws and shakes his head. Antlers flame around his head.

The Mark burns itself into his new form, searing itself into a festering sore that never heals. Fresh infection trails up and down his arm, meeting the remnants of Abaddon’s poison and overtaking them before rushing through his entire body.

Stretching his neck out, Dean thumps forward onto heavy paws, shaking his head. The demons scatter, slinking back into the dust and mud. Alone, Dean pads his way to the city on the horizon, watching the skyline change. Towers and pyramids reach for the sky, falling into ruin as they grow, rust and rot pitting steel and stone.

He prowls the abandoned alleys of Dis in near silence-- word must have gone ahead, warned the inhabitants to hide, their new duke on his way. He can hear demons scurrying around in the abandoned buildings and under the empty streets, whispers filling the empty waiting behind him.

At the center of the city lies a metal throne, built of girding iron and neon tubes, a bright nothingness.

Stretching himself to his full height-- he would tower over Sam now-- Dean reaches out to accept the power being offered to him.

A small form jumps at him from a half-built pillar, forcing him away from the throne. Shuddering back to a vaguely human form, Dean glares at the snake-like demon crouched at the base of the throne, reaching for the knife at his back.

“What right have you to control the throne?” She demands

“No one else is on it,” Dean growls, already imagining how far the snake will fly when he gets a paw on her.

The demon hops up on the throne, smirking as she turns around to face him. The snake is gone, replaced a beautiful woman-- well dressed, with some serious bling around her waist-- kicking out her legs like a chorus girl before ostentatiously crossing them at the knee. Her dark hair gleams blue-black in the flame and neon, drawing Dean in. “What now?”

This feels like something ritualized, like he’s stumbling into something over his head. Not that being clueless has ever stopped him before.

Growling softly, he lets his tongue run free, more worried about finding the high ground for the inevitable fight. “Vapula owed her legions to Abaddon. When Abaddon overextended herself, when she failed to take Earth, it was I who stopped her, I who defeated the Queen and turned her to ash. Who would stand against me?”

“You’ve learned some respect since the last time you were here, Dean Winchester,” she points out. The demon spreads her legs lewdly, pulling her skirt up and exposing herself to the waist. “I, Gremory, defy you and your claim. I stand on the throne, I hold the scepter, I beat the bounds.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Tilting his head, he raises an eyebrow at her exposed genitalia-- snake red and scaly, nothing attractive at all-- before letting his new form take over. “And neither do you, or you wouldn’t be trying to distract me.”

With a hiss, Gremory launches herself from the throne, transforming as she goes. She knocks him ass over tea kettle, sprawling across the pavestones before the throne. An impossibly heavy coil of snake loops around his neck, starting to constrict.

Dean rolls, trying to get free. The loop tightens further as Gremory twists herself around him.

Black spots dance in his vision, the edges starting to gray out. He shoves a hand-paw among the coils surrounding him, using his claws indiscriminately to pry the coil around his neck loose enough to suck in a lungful of air.

Gremory hisses from somewhere around his hip. Dean tenses, trying to shrug his way free of her embrace. The coil around his waist relaxes slightly just before there is a sharp pinch at the top of his thigh. Ice water cascades from where she bit him, numbing his leg.

Desperately, Dean digs into the smooth belly scales, levering her up and off. His claws rip open the scales, drenching them both in smokey ichor. Curling his paw, he impales Gremory on four inch claws, tearing and ripping, shoving forward to reach her spine.

She shudders, abruptly coming loose around his chest. Her head strikes at his leg again, fangs finding purchase through thick fur. Raking his claws across her side, exposing slick purple-brown twists of organs, he escapes from her chokehold. Dean slams her to the flagstones, a hand holding her throat tightly while the other reaches up and in, searching for her frantically beating heart.

Closing his hand around the muscle, Dean yanks it from her chest, stringy liver and lung spilling out with it. Flinging it to the side, he wipes his paw on her chest before looking up and growling. “Anyone else?”

The gathered demons silently melt away to the edges of the square. He lets them go, not interested in chasing after them to beat them into submission. Instinctively, he ignores the pain and weakness of the fight, climbing to his feet and mounting the throne.

The Mark pulses hot and aching with his heartbeat, burning off Gremory’s venom. It doesn’t do it kindly, the wildfire of the Mark set loose and burning all of him in the process. Dean grits his teeth, pushing the the pain down and away.

* * *

The Impala tells them nothing they didn’t already know. They find the keys tucked into the rear wheel well, the trunk still locked, the weapons intact, and absolutely _nothing_ out of the ordinary. The inside isn’t stripped, and the only trash left behind is what Sam expects for a solo road trip.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam nearly screams, punching the steering wheel. “Where the fuck has he gone?” The seat leather burns through his jeans, scorching after being left in the summer sun. “Anything back there?”

Charlie’s sigh says enough, even without her leaning over the seat. “We’ll find him, Sam.”

“How? He’s disappeared off the face of the fucking planet.”

“There are billions of cameras on Earth. He can’t hide from all of them.” Pulling out her phone, her fingers fly across the tiny keyboard. “Okay… additional camera work started. I’ll let you know as soon as I get any results.” She bites her lip at something her phone displays before pocketing it.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Charlie pulls back a little bit. “You going to be okay to get this beast home?”

Sam shakes his head before leaning back against the seat. The leather burning through his shirt is a good distraction from his disappointment. “There’s a few places I want to check out-- places where he’s done the safe house routine before-- that won’t have cameras for miles. Might take me a couple days. You go on back to the Bunker, I--”

“Don’t drink too much,” she cuts him off. “Work, don’t work, whatever. Wrap yourself around a fucking tree, I will find a way to resurrect your ass and kill you myself.”

“Charlie?”

“Just… don’t. I don’t want to lose someone else, alright?” Her face crumples before she quickly smooths it back out. “Dean being missing is enough.”

Sam frowns, twisting around in the seat. “I might be distracted, but I’m not an idiot either.”

She nods, mouth tight, before pulling back. “Anyway,” she blurts out, false cheer obvious, “I’ll get out of your hair, let you do your hunting thing. I’ve got college kids to mess with.”

“Anything you need, let me know,” Sam says. “I’m pretty sure Kev’s safe-- we’ve not heard a peep from Hell since…”

“Since Abaddon. Yeah. Not that a month means much in terms of silence from Hell. But hey, that’s what, a decade? I’ll take it. Now if only we knew for sure Heaven didn’t want a part of him.”

“You think that’s gonna be a concern?” He asks sharply.

Charlie shrugs, climbing out of the backseat to lean against the door. “I think we’re missing a shit ton of angels and the one on our shoulder is just as AWOL as Dean right now.”

Sam shoves a hand through his hair. “Cas has been gone for longer than this before. He’ll show back up eventually. He always does.”

“Right.” She leans over to look through the open door. “Wanna try that again, like you mean it?”

“No,” Sam says bluntly. “I don’t like this. We’re too separated and missing too many people. But,” he blows out a breath, looking over the patched asphalt of the parking lot. “We’re also out of leads. So I’m going to do what we always do when we’re stuck: hunt.”

Charlie nods tightly before standing up. “Call me if you need anything-- anything at all-- and I’ll let you know when I find something.”

She wraps him up in a hug before climbing into her car and heading back north.

Sam watches her go, slumping against the rear door. Once her car turns the corner, he blows out a breath, climbs back in, and drives away.

* * *

The portal exit drops Castiel on Earth at some tourist site in eastern Iowa, in the sandbox of a decrepit playground.

Glancing around, he takes shelter in the surrounding cornfields before anyone can notice him, or worse, follow him. He waits until dusk, sitting in the humid rows of corn for hours as the slow summer sun passes overhead, ignoring the insects and small rodents that come to investigate. They’re tiny, barely aware of more than their next food source, but that’s comforting, almost relaxing.

Lacking anything else to do-- his phone lies shattered in his pocket-- he meditates, attempting to drag his grace into order before emerging from the corn like a ghost in the night.

The parking lot is empty, the tourists gone back to their hotels or campgrounds, leaving Castiel alone with only mosquitoes and bats for company. Even the employees are gone, the old farmhouse lights flipped off, leaving the single parking lot light to cast a lonely circle on the gravel.

Truly alone, for the first time in days or weeks (months?), Castiel swallows against the sudden nausea that wells up. He needs a plan, he needs to move, needs to find shelter where Metatron won’t look. And he needs to find it quick, before Metatron has a chance to send angels after him.

Making a plans is next to impossible, he’s too tired and frightened to think strategically, but movement he can do. It feels like he’s spent the last six months walking along lonely Midwest highways, but here he is again, hiking towards civilization.

He steals a car in Dyersville, grateful Dean forced him to learn. Turning the car west and north, he heads towards Sioux Falls. Towards Jody.

It’s past dawn when Castiel parks his stolen car at a nearby park and walks the last half mile to Jody’s.

“Cas?” Jody stares at him from next to her truck, coffee clutched in one hand and her keys in the other.

“Jody. It is… good to see you,” he fumbles out. “I…”

“You need to get your butt inside,” she orders, tossing him the keys. “I’ll be right behind you. I just need to make a couple calls real quick.”

“How is Sam?”

“Didn’t figure he’d be the one you’d be asking about.” She lifts an eyebrow before gesturing towards the front door. “Get inside, you look rough as hell. We’ll talk.”

Nodding, he trudges to the door, pausing a moment to pry his shoes off and leave them on the porch, unwilling to drag half-dry mud across her floors.

Alex watches him warily when he reaches the kitchen. Right. She’d moved in with Jody. “Good morning, Alex. How are you today?”

“Better than you, looks like.” She reaches up and pulls down a second coffee mug. “You just missed Jody, but I can call her--”

“I’m here.” Jody swings a chair away from the table and sits in it, staring at Castiel like he’s grown a second head.

Reaching up, he rubs a hand across his face, double checking-- it wouldn’t surprise him at this point-- before wrapping his hands around the coffee mug Alex hands him.

“You look exhausted,” Alex points out. “I thought angels were indestructible or something.”

“Even if that were true, I’m a poor example of one.”

Jody sighs, breathing out through her nose. “You can get cleaned up in a few minutes. I’m pretty sure I’ve got something that will fit you well enough.”

“I was hoping I could borrow your phone to call Sam.”

“Sure, of course. But Cas, gotta ask. Where the hell have you been? We’ve been on red alert for weeks.”

“Heaven,” he says helplessly, fingers convulsing around the mug hard enough that his knuckles go white. “Metatron captured me, I… I just got away. I’m aware Sam must be grieving Dean, you all must be, but we must prepare. Metatron--”

“Shit,” Jody cuts him off. “Dean’s _dead_?” She pulls her phone off her belt, scrambling to unlock it. “You didn’t think to let us know? Sam’s frantic-- thought he’d run off--” She presses a few buttons on her phone, setting it on the table between them as it rings.

“‘Lo?” Sam answers sleepily.

“Sam? Jody Mills.”

“What?” The phone goes slightly muffled, the sounds of Sam sitting up with a groan, wherever he is. “I can be there in a few hours.”

“Hello, Sam.” Castiel leans over to make sure the phone picks his voice up clearly. “We’re at Jody’s house, yes.”

“Cas,” Sam breathes out. “Where the hell have you been? We’ve been missing you for weeks.”

“Heaven.” Castiel shrugs, even though Sam can’t see him. “Metatron.”

“Yeah, bookstore guy. General all around douche. What does that have to do… He captured you?”

“He wants me to lead the army against him.”

“What? That doesn’t-- What about Dean?”

Castiel shudders. “There must have been an accident or something. I don’t-- I wasn’t with him, but his soul…” Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. “The Mark must have done something, his soul rejected the remnants and dregs of grace.”

“What the fuck does that mean? Is he alive?”

“No, Sam. I’m sorry.”

“You gotta give me _something_ , Cas. He just took off, looking for you and now he’s dead?”

Jody looks at him, face full of sympathy, before swinging the phone back to her. “He’s pretty beat, Sam. Cut him some slack.”

Alex jerks her head towards the living room, grabbing Castiel’s coffee as she goes. Exhausted, unable to face Sam’s accusations, he follows her.

“So what’s up with you?” Alex asks bluntly, settling onto the sofa. “You’re in worse shape than when we met.”

Helplessly, he shakes his head, watching cars pass on the street outside. “My grace is… stretched, right now. I regained some of it, but--”

“Which is why you look like you need to a shower and about three days in bed.”

“I’ll be--”

“Castiel, I know what it’s like to be in the hands of monsters. If you can’t angel yourself clean and rested, for whatever reason, it’s okay to do it the human way.”

“Sam will be here in about five hours,” Jody says from the doorway. “He’ll have some clean clothes for you when he gets here. In the meantime, go ahead and get cleaned up. Alex, I’ve got to get to the station.”

Castiel nods, overwhelmed, as Jody bustles out the door, leaving him and Alex alone.


	34. Chapter 34

Juliet proudly displays her kill, dragging the man’s soul to Crowley where he waits on the outskirts of the property. There’s not much here, and will be even less once the water dries up, but that’s not his problem.

Patting Juliet’s head and tossing her a treat, he sighs and turns back towards Hell, mentally creating his to do list. Drop the soul in collections, check the status of his kingdom, locate whichever greasy spoon Dean needs to be dug out of… All necessary and important, but so bloody _boring_.

Rolling his eyes, he gathers up the quivering soul and steps through the shadows into Hell… and stumbles to a stop.

The blasted hellscape of Abaddon’s rule has been remade, the towers and plains missing like they never existed. Even the destruction she wreaked while searching for Dean is gone. Instead, it has returned to something like it was years ago, when Lilith was still, nominally, ruling.

Something has changed, monumentally, the sort of dramatic shift that should only occur with the elevation of a new Duke.

Crowley approaches the heart of the Crossroads cautiously. Stopping outside the throne room, he hands off the soul to a runner for delivery to the Pit and sends Juliet off to do… something. Whatever she wants. It takes a long moment to convince her to leave him, but she springs off eventually, chasing the runner with the soul.

Drawing himself up, he allows his true form to overtake him. There are other steps he’ll need to take, but first, he has to see what Bart has left him with.

“Nice place,” Dean drawls loudly from where he’s sprawled across Crowley’s throne. “Very… mid-nineties DMV.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” Crowley raises an eyebrow before shaking his head. “Of course, when has that ever stopped you.” Chuckling, Crowley steps inside and approaches the throne. Dean sits up, resting his elbows on his spread legs. It’s… a good look on him, but it would be better if he wasn’t on _Crowley’s_ throne. “Why _are_ you here, Squirrel? Tired of hot wings and bad beer already?”

“I’ll be back to that soon enough.” Dean smirks, glancing Crowley up and down. “Needed to take a break while things cooled down a bit.” Crowley looks up sharply but Dean continues before he has a chance to ask questions. “Wasn’t expecting to end up here though, or anywhere not on Earth.”

Crowley nods blankly, mind whirling. Abaddon had never been able to teleport, nor could the other Knights, that Dean can implies… something that he doesn’t have time to parse out right now. Not with Dean sitting pretty on his throne. “So you decided to take over the Crossroads? You’re welcome to it.”

Dean shrugs, climbing off the throne to stand next to Crowley, staring at it. “No, I was saving that one for you.”

_That one_. Are there others? Crowley pushes the worry away, time to focus on the here and now. “Where’s Barthamus?”

Dean gestures at the shadows along the walls. “He was annoying. I taught him silence.”

Pacing closer, Crowley inspects the demon hanging on the wall. There’s not much left, a bedraggled rag of a soul, leaking smoke and ichor. Bart babbles madly when Crowley steps closer, eyes speared open with… something.

“Impressive.” Turning back to Dean, Crowley gestures towards his new wall ornament. “Taking your apprenticeship back up?”

“Nah, too much work. He was an obnoxious little boot licker, thought I’d do you a favor.”

“By crucifying him on the walls of my court.”

“By showing everyone what the last Knight of Hell does when he gets bored.”

“I see. Message received.” Crowley nods, watching Bart’s twitching. “Did you enjoy yourself at least?”

Dean nods, leaning casually against a pillar. “It’s not hunting, or suicide wings and bar fights, but--” He shrugs, shoves a hand through his hair. “Gremory was more entertaining.”

“You… met Gremory.”

“I killed Gremory,” Dean corrects.

“I’m sorry?” Crowley asks, flabbergasted. “What?” That would explain the radical shifting outside-- If Dean stole another dukedom… He’s far more powerful than Crowley expected.

Dean stands up straight, eyes glinting dangerously. “I. Killed. Her.”

Unbidden, some _ridiculously_ obvious advice crosses Crowley’s mind: never show an aggressive predator fear and never run away. As if he would. “So you uprooted the power structure of Dis because you enjoy the tedium of ruling.”

“Fuck no. She was an Abaddon groupie. Barely worth the fight.” Shrugging, Dean fades back into the shadows. “Would rather have you stomping all over their necks.”

Crowley boggles at him for a moment. “This is a _gift_?”

“A selfish one,” Dean points out. “Fuck if I want to deal with it.”

“And _there’s_ the reason.” Crowley grins, turning his back to Barthamus and reclaiming his throne. “Before you leave, dispose of your art project. He’s heard far too much.”

Dean pulls the First Blade out of thin air-- another intriguing thing Crowley needs to investigate-- before plunging it into what remains of Bart’s chest. Sparks fly, literally, before Dean shoves the Blade back into wherever he’s keeping it. Smirking, he swaggers back to the throne, towering over Crowley before leaning down and capturing Crowley’s lips.

It’s an enjoyable, but obvious, distraction. Smiling pleasantly, Crowley removes Dean’s hands from his pockets and pushes him away. “Don’t you have songs to butcher, or bar fights to pick?”

Dean lingers for a moment before nodding. “Come find me when you’re bored with this.” He disappears between one step and the next.

Interesting, that Dean first arrived in Dis, not the Pit. More interesting still that he defeated Gremory-- second to only the dukes themselves in power-- without much effort. Making a note to search out Vapula’s remains, Crowley shakes his head and waves open the throne room doors. He might as well deal with the Crossroads while he’s here.

* * *

It’s after lunch before Sam arrives, clearly exhausted and running on coffee and panic. Castiel hears the Impala long before it parks on Jody’s quiet street, setting the neighbor’s dog barking in the summer sun.

Alex rabbits out of her chair before he can knock, pulling Sam inside before he can say anything. “Jody says to stop by before you leave town,” she blurts out. “She’s at work.”

“Got it.” Sam nods, exhaustion dragging every movement.

Biting his lip, Castiel wonders when the last time Sam slept, let alone the last time he slept well. Taking advantage of a few hours’ worth of familiarity, Castiel shepherds Sam into the kitchen before shoving a glass of water at him. “Hello, Sam.”

Alex rolls her eyes and pushes past him, tossing out the used coffee filter and starting a new pot.

“So… Dean.” Sam’s voice breaks on the last word, finger idly tracing the grain of the wood.

Castiel shrugs helplessly, too tired to figure out a delicate way to say it. “The grace holding his soul together and human shaped was rejected, torn from the cracks and crevices and cast back to its source.”

Sam’s eyes widen slightly. “You.”

“Me,” Castiel agrees, accepting the cup of coffee Alex shoves in front of him.

“He’s died before though. Since Hell. Why now? Why this one?”

“I don’t know, Sam. Something to do with the Mark of Cain, but that’s all I know. I am-- was-- a seraph, more concerned with fighting Heaven’s battles than the details of the lore.”

“Cain was a pretty big deal, Cas.”

“And half a continent away, fallen angels were attacking another settlement which would eventually become Athens,” Castiel points out flatly. “You might see why that may have garnered my attention.”

“I gotta ask.” Alex leans her chair back on two legs before slamming forward. “Garden of Eden? Genesis, the whole nine?”

“What remains of the Garden is in New York. When Adam and Eve were cast out, they were moved to the Middle East and the Fertile Crescent.”

“New York?” Sam asks. “You mean Twain was _right_?”

Castiel sighs, looking around Jody’s warm kitchen. “There are… rumors about what happened to Cain when he was exiled from humanity’s hearth. I didn’t think they were more than that, but the evidence now...”

“Now you tell us?” Sam snaps.

Castiel wraps his hands around his mug, glaring. “Perhaps I should have told you about a millennia old rumor while all the angels were falling? Or while I was captured and imprisoned in Heaven? I know, when I was--” he cuts himself off, unwilling to admit what Naomi forced him to do.

Sam frowns, waving off Castiel’s apology and looking down at the table. “I-- I shouldn’t yell at you for not thinking of it. What was the rumor?”

“After decades of warfare, Cain took his own life. And what arose was far more terrible than anything Heaven expected. There were already demons, the princes and dukes well established, but Cain…”

“He became a demon?” Alex asks, her voice small and quiet.

“One of the first souls twisted and broken. The Pit was barely functional and then there was Cain, remembering what it meant to be human and more powerful than half the existing hierarchy.”

“So why isn’t Cain in Hell, ruling it?” Sam asks skeptically. “If he was that powerful…”

“Lucifer had enticed Cain into killing Abel, but was already in the Cage. He could no more protect his protege than he could do more than influence events on Earth.” Castiel sighs. “Not that Cain needed or wanted his protection. Cain laid waste to all of Hell and then marched right back out. He didn’t want it.”

“That’s the least demonic thing I’ve ever heard.” Sam snorts, taking a drink of his coffee and wrinkling his nose. “All they want is power.”

“He had power,” Alex points out. “He walked in, beat the shit out of them, and then walked away-- because they couldn’t do anything to him. Taking control, killing them? That would have been a mercy.”

“Dean is a Knight now-- the last one besides Cain, and his chosen heir. If he died…” Cas blows out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “And it fits with his soul rejecting the grace threaded through it.”

“No.” Sam slams a hand on the table, making everything jump. “There’s no way Dean would let himself become a demon of all things. He’d die first.”

“Sam--”

Sam’s phone cuts Castiel off, buzzing loudly in his pocket. “Hey, Charlie,” Sam answers, pressing a button so it’s on speaker.

“I think I found him. Or one of my spiders did. Whatever,” she says excitedly. “I found a lead anyway.”

“Ok, but Charlie--” Sam’s phone dings with a crappy black and white photo-- taken from security camera footage, Castiel would guess-- of Dean kneeling over a man, face half-turned away from the camera. “That’s Dean.”

“Then someone shoved a demon in his meatsuit, because the next frame? Black eyeballs. While he’s beating that guy to death, by the way.” Charlie types something on her end, the clack of her keyboard almost comforting. “I’m sending you what I have, but I gotta sit this one out guys.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam reassures her. “We get it. Take care of Kevin and Gavin, we’ll follow up.”

The phone goes dead abruptly, without any of Charlie’s enthusiastic farewells. Frowning, Sam looks at the phone and then at Castiel. “How do you feel about hunting down the demon bastard and putting an end to him?”

“That’s not ‘some demon,’ Sam. That’s _Dean_ ,” Castiel quietly insists. “Even if we could kill him, it would mean killing your brother. And I’m not going to be much use hunting anyway.”

“That’s _not_ my brother.” Sam glances over. “You can’t tell me you don’t want to rescue Dean from that abomination-- that’s what you do.”

Castiel’s fingers tighten around the coffee cup, resisting the urge to throw the coffee at Sam and making him listen. “My grace is mostly gone.”

“What does that have to do with Dean?” Sam demands. “There’s a fucking demon wandering around with a Dean suit and--” He cuts himself off. “Wait, your grace is mostly gone. Like, Apocalypse gone? So you’re…?”

“Fundamentally human, with some perks.”

“Are you going…” Sam trails off. “Never mind. I’ll search for Dean, you get your grace back up or whatever. This won’t be too hard now that we have a lead.”

* * *

He loses interest in the bar scene and its limited charms pretty quick. He still has fun-- it’s never _not_ fun beating the shit out of abusers and homophobes-- but by himself, Dean quickly reverts to being the loudmouth drunk in the corner, hitting on the bartender. Or the wait staff. Or the bachelorette. Sometimes the best man. Once the groom-- that’d been a fun night.

Leaning against the bar, Dean watches a couple of drunk forty-something women-- celebrating a second divorce? Good for her, he’ll give her a chance to pick up someone new in a bit-- murder some Britney Spears on stage and takes another drink of his beer. Which tastes like shit, or maybe that’s the sulfur he can’t seem to get out of his nose.

Crowley casually catches the bartender’s attention before Dean has a chance to figure out where he came from. “Scotch, love, the good stuff.”

“Where you been?” Dean asks, drinking his beer and turning around. “Figured you’d be back days ago.”

“That was the plan. But then _someone_ dropped an entire dukedom in my lap and fucked off without so much as a by your leave.”

“Figured you’d want it. Keep her from making trouble for the King.”

“Oh, you certainly did that,” Crowley says sarcastically. “Someone has to run the place and you’re not there so it comes back to me.”

“Aww, Crowley, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Someone has to keep you in the style to which you’ve become accustomed.”

Dean’s eyes flick black-- he still can’t get used to the feel of that-- and he turns to face Crowley head on. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

“You think beer and whiskey flows like water for _free_?”

No, but Dean gave up thinking about that shit when he gave up his humanity. “You’ve gotta relax, man. Yeah, this place is a dive, but that just means it’s cheap. We can grab a few beers, sing a few songs, and then do it all over again tomorrow.”

Crowley’s face is carefully blank, like Dean can’t read that. Even if he couldn’t, the revulsion on his true form is obvious… and ignorable.

Draining his beer, Dean turns his back on Crowley and wanders over to the divorce party. He sizes them up as he approaches, skipping a few steps ahead when one of them stumbles to her feet and makes directly for him. Grinning, Dean allows her to push him into her abandoned chair, accepts the newly divorced woman-- Diana, maybe?-- onto his lap, and lets her friends party around them.

Crowley is still watching from the bar. Dean purses his lips slightly before turning Debbie around slightly, enough he can actually see her face. Leaning forward, he captures her lips with his, sinking into the purely physical. Her girlfriends hoot and holler around them like teenagers, cheering them on until Danielle breaks it off.

Her smile is _wicked_. “Hold on, cowboy. I’ve still got my song to sing.”

Laughing, Dean lets go, watching her head up to the stage. The DJ, short and slightly balding, says something Dean can’t hear over the noise, grabbing her arm tight enough the skin goes white, even in this lighting. He’s about to head over there when Denise points emphatically at some song in the binder.

“Her ex’s step-brother,” one of the other girls says, presumably for Dean’s benefit. “Fucking dirtbag, but he’s the only one with the equipment in town.”

Dean starts to respond when the twangy intro of ‘Goodbye Earl’ starts up. Diana actually does a pretty good job, and one of her friends dashes up there to sing along before she gets to the first chorus. It’s the first time in over a decade Dean’s actually paid attention to the lyrics and… yeah, she _might_ be trying to get a point across.

He nods, holds his hands up-- no harm, no foul-- and heads back to the bar and Crowley.

“Bored of this putrid box of body odor and bad decisions yet?” Crowley sneers.

“I was, until you decided to be a dick about it.” Dean glances over his shoulder, back to the stage and, yeah, Denise is totally making out with her friend. Her loss. “Whatever,” he mutters. “What do you want?”

“Dean Winchester, striking out?” Crowley leans against the bar, taking a sip of his whiskey, watching whatever is going on on stage. “Perish the thought.”

Dean’s eyes flash black in the mirror above the bar, glaring at the back of Crowley’s head. “It was going to be a pity fuck, Crowley. Not true love.”

Crowley hmms, raising an eyebrow and taking a long sip of his scotch.

They finish their drinks in silence, ignoring the crowd around them as it gets drunker and louder. Eventually Crowley jerks his head toward the back, where couples are disappearing towards the bathrooms. “Want to get out of here?”

Dean leans in close, sliding his hand under Crowley’s jacket and pulling him closer. “We can do better than a quickie in a dirty bathroom, can’t we?” he whispers into his ear. “We’ve got at least two thrones to defile--”

“Four,”

“--Four thrones between the two of us,” Dean continues, pushing it to the side. “Any of them would be better.”

Abruptly, Crowley switches their positions, crowding Dean against the bar. “Is that what you want, Dean? For me to fuck you on one of our thrones? For all of Hell to see who controls the last Knight of Hell?”

“You don’t control me, Crowley. And it’d be funny to see you try.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.” Crowley leans down, kissing Dean firmly. The whiskey on his lips soothes the burn of the sulfur, drowning out the flames with oak and rye.

Dean thinks about resisting, turning this around and showing Crowley just who’s boss, but this is easier. Relaxing into the kiss, he slides his hands back around Crowley, slipping into his pockets and pulling him closer. “Gotta get you out of this suit sometime,” he mumbles. “Into something more comfortable.”

“This _is_ comfortable.” Crowley breaks off, leaning back to look at Dean. “Might try you in a suit that actually fits, for that matter.”

“Yeah, fuck no,” Dean says flatly. “Monkey suits were barely worth it when I was playing Fed.”

“Control and respect are worth it.”

Dean snorts, reaches back and pulls the First Blade down slightly from where it’s nestled against his back. “This is all the respect that I need.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, stepping backwards. The noise of the crowd filters back in, drunks yelling at the new singer, a few folks glaring at the two of them… it’s any other Saturday night in a small town roadhouse.

* * *

Castiel barely looks at his phone when it rings, answering it and setting it on the arm of the couch. “Nothing again?”

“No,” Sam answers petulantly. “I don’t understand. Why--”

“He doesn’t want you to find him, Sam.”

“I’m not going to let some mouth breathing dingleberry of a demon run around in my brother’s body, Cas.”

“When we get him back, I’ll be sure to let your brother know what you think of him,” Castiel shoots back.

“That’s _not_ Dean. There’s no way--”

“There’s no way Dean would beat a man to death, or break a bouncer’s arm, or do any of the other things he’s been doing.” Castiel snorts “So you’ve said.”

“Unless Crowley’s shoved a demon in Dean’s body somehow,” Sam insists, again, like saying it will make it true.

Castiel rolls his eyes, slouching further into Jody’s couch. A tickle at the back of his throat surprises him, forces out a cough that shatters the awkward silence. Flecks of blood appear on the back of his hand, hastily wiped off onto his jeans and ignored.

“How are--”

“I’m fine,” Castiel cuts Sam off. “There was dust.”

“Cas, if you need to take a few more days off, get yourself put back together or whatever…”

“I’m fine, Sam,” he bites out, glancing around Jody’s living room. He’s spent three weeks here, hiding from Heaven and trying to get his grace back into shape and… he doesn’t think it’s going to happen anymore.

“Sure. Of course,” Sam agrees easily-- too easily-- before mumbling something about finding another lead and hanging up. Castiel lets him go, flopping his head back against the couch and turning inwards again.

Just like before, no matter how he works with it, his grace… isn’t responding. What remains barely even recognizes him. There’s too much missing, distorted and damaged. Once his wings heal, he _thinks_ he’ll be able fly again, but that’s little more than a guess.

And none of it will matter if they don’t find Dean.

Alex throws herself onto the couch next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “It doesn’t have any answers either. I don’t think anyway.”

He turns to look at her. “Shouldn’t you be at… school?”

“Tutoring. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh.” Returning his gaze to the ceiling, Castiel sighs again before trying to resume his meditation.

“Go for a run, Cas,” Alex interrupts. “You’ve tried this motionless meditation thing for days and haven’t gotten anywhere. Try running. Or yoga.” She shrugs when he looks at her curiously. “Its something the therapist Jody dragged me to suggested.”

“Did it work?”

“Running? Yes. Therapy? Since we couldn’t talk about what actually happened to me…” She trails off with a shrug. “Not really? But it went better than catching up for school has.”

“Dean did something called a GED?”

“Yeah, I suggested that, but Jody didn’t want to hear it. I’d still need the tutoring to catch up and school is more about learning how to deal with people than what you’re actually learning.” He looks at her skeptically, but she just shrugs. “Something about positive interactions with my peer group. Per the therapist.”

“Is it helping?”

“I’ve had basic algebra figured out for days but dickbag won’t move on in math until I’m caught up in English. Which I’m dumb as a fucking rock in. I don’t get it. Why don’t the other animals just… kill the pigs?”

Castiel stares at her blankly. “Presumably because it is rather difficult for…” he trails off, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“Animal Farm, it’s… never mind. Like I said, I’m just a fucking idiot.” Leaning over the arm of the couch, she snags a thin book out of her bag and settles back into the corner. “Do your thing, I’ll keep you company.”

It is _slightly_ easier to focus, somehow, with Alex’s presence on the other end of the couch, slowly turning pages and occasionally muttering to herself. Sinking into himself, he tries, again, to rebuild his grace.

It just lays there, lifeless, like a worn out sock, misshapen and filled with holes, barely hanging onto him. No matter what he does, it always seems to end up in worse shape. Opening his eyes, he gives up. Weeks of effort, plus the healing Efraim did in Heaven, plus Hannah and…

Fuck it. He’s worse than useless with his grace like this. Better to tear it out, become human, than to continue being this sickly _thing_ taking up space on Jody’s couch.

Pushing himself to his feet, he heads towards the kitchen and the spice cabinet. Glaring at the narrow shelves, he grabs the first glass container he sees-- a pepper shaker-- and unceremoniously dumps the contents into the sink.

As if to emphasize that he’s completely useless, it takes five minutes to etch the appropriate sigils and spells into the glass, turning cheap molded glass into something that won’t shatter. Setting the finished jar on the counter, Castiel summons his angel blade before leaning heavily against the counter.

His grace pulses weakly, almost like it’s aware of what he’s doing, but he ignores it.

He grips the counter with his free hand before holding his breath. The angel blade is a whisper of pressure across his throat, doesn’t even hurt. It cuts through his vessel like nothing, his grace spilling out and down his shirt front.

Castiel drops the blade from suddenly nerveless fingers, distantly listening to it clatter to the tile floor while he fumbles the bespelled pepper shaker to his throat. He can’t see what’s happening so he stands there, feeling his grace drain away

Bit

By

Bit

Until nothing’s left. He assumes he kept enough to stay inside this body, but… he has no idea how long that will last.

Sliding down the cabinet, he pulls the metal top from his pocket and carefully twists it into place. There.

“Is that-- What the fuck did you do?” Alex demands, rushing across the kitchen faster than he can process. “Is that your _grace_?”

Numbly, he nods, not trusting his voice.

“Lean your head back, let me take a look at this.” Alex tilts his head back firmly, pressing it into the wood of the cabinets before popping up and disappearing.

Like it was waiting for her to leave, his nervous system sets itself alight, _smelltastehearseefeel_ in a massive, never-ending burst. The pain of his slit throat, Alex’s frantic near-yelling in the other room, weight of the pepper shaker in his hand, strangely heavy with grace, and the metallic smell-taste of his own blood overwhelming everything else.

“I’m guessing I can’t take you to the hospital, so you get me and my shitty skills.” Alex drops an EMS medical kit to the floor next to him, pushing him back against the cabinet when Castiel starts to lean forward. “Nope. Stay still.”

Opening his mouth to respond, all that comes out is a faint croak. Alex ignores his attempt, chanting something under her breath, quickly doing something with bandages.

Watching his throat a few minutes later with a critical eye, Alex sags back, propping herself up with one hand and sighing. “Bleeding’s stopped, and you’re not dead. Congratulations on not killing yourself so Sam or Jody can do it for you.”

Castiel tries to ask a question but can’t get more than a weak groan out. Grunting, he points at his throat and moves his hand in something he hopes represents talking.

“No idea.” Alex shrugs. “Next time you decide to rip out your grace, have an angel on hand to heal the side effects,” she says angrily. “Instead of hoping the fang whore in the other room can save your ass.”

Swallowing-- and regretting it, very much-- Castiel nods. He’s fairly certain he was never in danger of dying, but this side of mortality makes that a lot less reassuring than it was.

Dropping the vial of grace on the floor, he sketches out the ASL for thank you, hoping that Alex gets the meaning, even if not the words.

Grunting, she nods, breathing heavily while she packs the kit back up. She avoids looking at him, focusing on the paper and plastic wrapped bandages and tools. “I can’t fucking-- You stupid fucking _asshole_. You could have fucking died! And for what? To live as a goddamned human for all of thirty seconds before you choked to fucking death _on your own blood_?” Alex glares at him, a merciless stare promising pain and retribution.

He lifts his hands helplessly, letting them fall back into his lap when he can’t figure out how to say anything.

Standing over him, she helps him up before pushing him into a chair at the table. “Stay there,” Alex orders before carrying the first aid kit out of the kitchen.

Jody rushes in a couple of minutes later, eyes wide, already pulling gloves out of a pocket of her uniform before she stumbles to a stop, her boot catching the shaker of grace and sending it skittering across the floor. “Well, you look like you tried to cut your own throat, but not like you were very successful.” She sits heavily in the chair across from him. “You okay?”

One hand raises of its own volition to feel the edges of the bandage taped across his throat. The adhesive is itchy, pulling at the stubble growing there, and it hurts and his head is starting to hurt too and… “No,” he whisper-grunts, barely able to make a noise. “I’m not.”


	35. Chapter 35

“I get it, Sam.” Kevin rolls his eyes and tosses his bag onto the couch. “Dean’s dangerous, might want to kill me, and should not be approached under any circumstances. Am I forgetting anything?” He lets a bit of an edge bleed into his voice-- he got tired of this conversation twenty minutes ago-- and drops his phone on the table next to the pile of lore books.

“I’m serious, Kev. Dean--” and there Sam goes again, repeating the same warnings and cautions for a fifth time, and Kevin does not have the time or patience for this.

“I’m going to assume that you’re stuck and looking for something to do,” he cuts Sam off. “Why else would you be telling me all this again, instead of doing something useful.”

“Did you have something else to do?” Sam says scornfully.

“Well, it’s Thursday night in a college town, and my ID says I’m twenty-two,” he points out. He has no real intention of leaving the house again, but it gets his point across.

“We made that so you wouldn’t have trouble if you had to run.”

“Like you never used of a fake while you were in school. Gavin’s not used to drinking water and I can’t exist on coffee alone.”

“I--” Sam starts, probably about to launch into some (well-meant) lecture about his time in college.

“Save it. I know you’re not about to tell me to wait until I’m actually twenty-one, since everyone spent the summer handing me beer. You wouldn’t be that hypocritical.”

“Just… be careful,” Sam sighs. “I don’t like this.”

Kevin rolls his eyes again, reaching over to end the call. It’s rude, but he doesn’t care. He’s got a paper to finish and some research for his cryptography class to get done.

At least his Latin homework will be easy.

Dropping his head to the table, he thumps it a few times, the brief sting a welcome respite from his already towering to do list. He should have expected going back to school to be like this; dual majors plus his hidden of major of ‘try not to die’ are already trying to overload him and he’s barely started the semester.

Charlie was right. Trying to do all this at a private school with high expectations? He would have already collapsed into a puddle of vaguely prophet shaped goo.

Gavin drops a plate next to his head on the table. “Sam called?”

“Thanks.” Kevin shrugs, picking up the sandwich. “Sam’s being paranoid, doesn’t want me to leave the house because Dean might find me.”

“That seems unusually cautious,” Gavin says slowly. “I don’t know him well, however, he doesn’t seem like someone who would be afraid without good reason.”

“Sam and Dean both tend to be of the ‘if it’s scary, kill it’ school of thought. Which, given their jobs, is not necessarily a bad thing,” Gavin admits. “I don’t know how they can do it full time.”

“Men often walk into horrors innumerable for the sake of protecting those they love.”

“Which would be why I didn’t tell Sam to shove it after the first speech.” Glancing at the clock on the microwave, he sighs. “I have too much homework to go out tonight anyway.”

“Good. I wasn’t eager to do so myself.” Pulling out a tablet Charlie set up for him, Gavin settles in across the table with his literacy program.

They work in companionable silence for about twenty minutes before Gavin gets restless and puts things away, moving on to his self-assigned chores. Eventually, Kevin finishes his essay, turns on some music, and gets up to help.

“Where’s Charlie anyway?”

Gavin looks up from his mending and grins. “She said she had a date and if we interrupted her for less than Lucifer himself raining down blood and fire, she would castrate us both.”

“When in the hell did she have time to meet a girl?”

“She said the young lady grabbed the wrong drink yesterday morning at the coffee shop. She wasn’t particularly eager to share details.” He pauses, frowning. “Would it be possible, at some point, to look up my own sweetheart?”

Of course Gavin has a girlfriend. It wouldn’t be Kevin’s life if he had a social life. Even if she’s centuries dead--

His phone buzzes on the counter next to him, distracting him before he gets too irritated. Reaching over, he puts it on speaker without paying attention to who’s calling. “Kevin.”

“Hi, Kevin. It’s, uh, Morgan, from Brit Lit?” Morgan, right. Shy, made a good point about the use of sibilance in Paradise Lost last week, probably _not_ a demon or associated with monsters or hunting. “I grabbed your number off the study sheet, I hope you don’t mind...”

Alarmed, Kevin looks up and meets Gavin’s eyes. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I mean, not a problem. What’s up?” Gavin snorts and starts sniggering into his hand.

“I, I mean, we, um. A bunch of us were going to hit up a bar tonight and I thought, maybe you’d like to come with me. Us. I mean us.”

How is this his life? “Oh, shit. I’ve a… Tonight’s no good. I’ve got a bunch of readings to do and an essay--”

“Oh,” her voice falls. “Right. Yeah. Of course. No worries. I’ll let you get back to that then.” She hangs up without another word.

Frowning, Kevin stares at his phone, trying to figure out what just happened. “Was that… Did she ask me out on a _date_?”

“Yes. Well, she was trying to.” Gavin pulls him away from the counter and the cutting board with it’s stacked vegetables. “If you want to change your mind, I’m certain she’ll overlook your churlishness.”

“No, I…” Turning, he reaches into the fridge for a pop, because if he starts drinking now, he won’t stop. “It’s safer if she doesn’t… Last time I dated someone, she got possessed and then Crowley snapped her neck. I’d rather avoid that happening again, if it’s all the same.”

Gavin nods silently, smoothly taking over chopping vegetables and making dinner.

“I’m gonna go--” rage, pretend all this shit isn’t happening, curl into a ball and not cry. He shakes his head and heads upstairs, snagging one of his books for… some class or another. He’ll figure it out later. He just needs to not think about things for a while, and homework is always a valid excuse.

* * *

It’s a business man’s bar, the lighting low without being dim, no pool table, and three shelves of fancy whiskeys. Sitting at the bar in his Fed suit and nursing a gin and tonic, Sam watches the crowd, trying to spot the demon.

Two spectacular runs of good luck in two days-- a lower manager who walked out of his job at an insurance company and into a multi-million dollar contract playing for the Denver hockey team, and a young lawyer, barely past taking her bar exam, named chief council for a major corruption case-- started here. It’s a risk, hoping that the demon is still here, hoping that he can capture them.

But demons aren’t showing up when Sam summons them, so he’ll have to make due with the ones working the crossroads. He’s been here for a couple hours already, watching the crowd, trying to get a feel for how it moves, who the regulars are. There’s a few who stand out-- not dressed right, staring around like they’re new-- but no one has the seductive swagger he expects for a crossroad demon.

Another business man settles on the stool next to him, handing the bartender his card and telling him to open a tab.

“Rough day?” Sam asks after the guy’s downed two scotches in less than five minutes.

“Could say that,” the guy responds, motioning for a third scotch and a beer. “I just got out from talking to my lawyer and I really am going to owe the stupid bitch half, even though she cheated on me.”

“Ouch!” Sam keeps him talking, making all the right noises while he watches the crowd that moves around them.

He smells her before he sees her, the dark thrum of demon blood hitting him even over alcohol and cheap pizza.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she starts, insinuating herself between Sam and Lester and ignoring Sam entirely. “I just think it’s really shitty what your wife did, and if you wanted to do something about that, I’d be willing to help…” Twirling honey blonde hair around her finger, she looks adoringly up at Lester.

She’s good, Sam has to give her that, playing Lester’s hurt and anger with an soft hand, not pushing too hard, practically letting him hook himself. Lester is eating out of her hand in minutes.

She’s been taught well, whoever trained her in sales.

Sam listens to every word she says, what she offers-- killing his wife, so creative-- and how Lester responds. “You should take this outside,” Sam slurs just before they finalize the deal. “Don’t think this is the sort of place that condones prostitution.”

“It’s a service, chuckles,” the demon starts, turning to face him for the first time. “Winchester.”

“Demon.” Sam throws a few bills on the bartop, flashing the demon killing knife before standing and buttoning his jacket. “Outside? We wouldn’t want anyone to interrupt.”

“We can make a deal too,” she whispers in his ear, going up on her tiptoes. “All this blood? I can tell you want it…”

“There are other things I want more,” Sam says flatly. “Let’s go.” Dropping a hand onto her shoulder, he tightly steers her out the door and to the Impala. Biting his lip, he pauses, trying to figure out how he’s going to get her into the trunk without anyone seeing.

“What’s the matter, Sammy?” She tsks, fake pouting. “Can’t shove the pretty girl into your junk drawer without causing a ruckus?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, twisting her around so he can pop the trunk. He shoves her in unceremoniously, trying not to look suspicious to anyone driving by.

“You always did like ‘em older than you and slightly helpless.” The demon smirks, stretching to test the limits of the devil’s trap. “Did you even go to Gert’s funeral after you got her killed?”

Gert? From that fucking haunted ship… “Bela.” Fuck. He slams the trunk shut, hurrying to the driver’s seat and climbing in. Surely she should still be in Hell?

The passenger side door jerks open and Lester slides angrily into the car. “I was _talking_ to her, jackass. And you just grabbed her and left!”

“Lester, this _really_ isn’t the time.”

“I don’t know the last time I had sex, and you grab the closest thing I have to a date? Uncool, man.”

“Get out of the car, Lester. She’s not what you think.”

“No. Fuck off. It’s not like I’m against sharing her with you.” He wedges himself into the corner of the seat, arms crossed stubbornly.

“Fine, whatever.” Putting the car in drive, he pulls out into traffic, heading towards the highway and a safe house where he can interrogate Bela without the neighbors calling in a noise complaint.

“What’s going on?” Lester asks as Sam parks the car. “I thought we were going back to your place, get a good fuck in before we continue _negotiating_.” He leers, twisting around to look through the back window.

“You’re disgusting.” Rolling his eyes, Sam digs through his duffel in the backseat, coming up with the spelled handcuffs. “For fuck’s sake man, it’s just money. Is it really worth your soul?”

Lester bites his lip, climbing out of the car and looking around the neighborhood thoughtfully.

Sam pushes past him, popping the trunk open and looking coldly down at the demon trapped inside. She’s scratched herself on something, deeply enough to draw blood, the stench of it exploding upwards like some sort of pollen bomb. Ignoring Lester at his shoulder, Sam reaches in and pulls her upright.

Lester darts forward before Sam can get the handcuffs on her, shoving Sam to the side. “Kill my wife and my soul is yours.”

“Deal.” Bela smiles, reaching up to pull Lester forward into a kiss. “It’ll be done within a week.”

“You… why the fuck did you do that?” Sam asks helplessly, scrambling up and pulling Lester away. “You just sold your soul, moron.”

“Worth it,” Lester says, licking Bela’s cheap lipstick off. “Cheap at twice the price.”

“Your _soul_ ,” Sam repeats.

“Yes, Sammy, he knows. Are you deaf? Or just stupid.” Bela rolls her eyes, turning to sit cross-legged. “All of Hell knows that you’re--”

“Shut up,” Sam growls, picking her up enough to wrap the cuffs around her wrists. “I don’t want to talk about what all of Hell knows.” How the fuck does Bela remember enough to hit all his buttons?

The house was built in the housing explosion of post-World War Two, long and narrow with a detached garage accessed by the alley behind. The garage isn’t much to speak of, barely big enough for Sam’s purposes, but Hank soundproofed it years ago, embedded a line of salt in the concrete, and generally turned it into the perfect interrogation chamber.

Sam doesn’t know how he’s also kept the neighborhood kids out of it when Hank’s splitting time between his daughters in New Mexico and Georgia, but honestly, he doesn’t care.

He hangs Bela by the cuffs from a hook in the center of the garage. “Stay out,” he orders Lester when he starts to follow Sam in. “You’re fucked, and I don’t want you to screw things up worse.”

He can see traces of Bela in how she waits for him, testing the amount of slack, twisting around to follow his movements. “It’s been a while,” he starts, staying outside the trap. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

“Centuries of blood and torture,” Bela agrees. “The only thing worse than being under Lilith’s thumb was being under Alastair’s. But now… Now I’m free.”

“So you’re working crossroads on your own? Nah, don’t buy it. You’re still under someone’s thumb.”

“I outlived everyone who owned my contract, Sammy,” Bela says slowly, looking at him carefully. “Thanks to you and your brother. Thank you, really.” She chuckles darkly. “Gotta tell you though, Sam. Dean earned his place in Hell, twice over. He’s reigning champ. I just don’t see you doing the same.”

“Don’t call me that. Where’s Crowley, Bela?”

She shrugs. “Not here.”

Pulling the demon killing knife from his back, Sam flips it idly before stepping into the devil’s trap. Bela’s eyes follow it as it tumbles through the air, not _quite_ managing to maintain the relaxation she’s aiming for. “I know Crowley shoved a demon in Dean’s body. I know they abandoned the Impala to keep me off their tail. I just need to know where they are.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got better things to do than follow Lucky and his squirrel.”

Sam nods tightly, walking out of the trap before he does something he’ll regret. The stench of blood and sulfur clogs his nose, and he just can’t--

Snatching a screwdriver off the table, Sam buries it in Bela’s thigh with two giant strides. “Tell me where they are,” he bellows.

“I don’t know,” Bela screams. “Crowley’s showing up in Hell, sometimes, but Dean’s unpredictable. He’s around when he wants to be-- rumor says it’s when he gets bored topside.”

Carefully, Sam pulls the screwdriver out, wiping the blood off on Bela’s shirt. “Stop calling the demon riding around in my brother Dean. It won’t work.” Mark of Cain or not, there’s no way Dean would let himself become a demon. There’s no way Dean abandoned them to follow Crowley’s ass around.

“You really are that dumb, aren’t you.” Bela huffs a laugh, tilting her head back and fearlessly showing her throat. “Crowley didn’t have to do jack shit. Dean’s the only one in there, and by the gossip I’m hearing? He’s having the time of his _life_.”

Sam grinds his teeth, watching her angrily. “I thought you didn’t know where he is.”

“I don’t need to know where he is to know that free of you? And hunting? And having to wipe the ass of every single person in his life?” She chuckles. “It’s _everything he ever wanted_. Wrapped up in one demonic package.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shaking her head, Bela raises an eyebrow. “Don’t I?”

“Dean-- Dean wants to hunt. I’ve tried to get him out and he went back to it.”

“Ah, yes. While you were in Hell and he played make-believe for a year because it was literally your dying wish. Did you ever try when the world _wasn’t_ ending?”

“Is everything about our lives in some newspaper that gets passed around?” Sam shoots back. “The world is _always_ ending. We’ve been busy.”

“I’d say.” Her eyes flash red as something clatters against the wall of the garage. Something metallic-- a hoe maybe, or a shovel-- scrapes across the floor, scratching the paint of the trap. The trap breaks and Bela yanks her arms down, shearing the old chain attached to the hook off.

She dashes towards the garage side door that Lester is holding open for her and brandishing a set of keys, gloating in the shadows. Before Sam can get there, Lester pops open the cuffs, freeing her entirely.

Bela pats Lester’s cheek gently before disappearing. Lester stands there in the doorway like a chump, cuffs lying at his feet, obviously proud of himself for screwing up Sam’s plans.

“Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done?”

“Saved the girl, screwed you, put a hit out on my cheating bitch of a wife.” Lester smirks. “Seems like a good night’s work to me.”

“God, you’re an idiot. And if you’re very, very lucky, you might get to wife number three before you get dragged to Hell and leave her a widow.” Sam snorts, pushing past Lester and heading back to the car. “Congratulations.”

Lester shouts something as he walks away, climbing into the car and speeding away.

* * *

“I cannot locate Castiel,” Gadreel admits quietly, standing well away from X’s desk. “He overpowered the guards on his cell and somehow hid himself from us.”

X looks up from pecking out impossibilities on his typewriter. “You’re my general, Gadreel. Bring me solutions, not problems. I’m busy.”

“Of course. Some matters require your attention while I’m searching for Castiel. Kabriel will arrive soon to assist you.”

“This is what I have you for,” X whines.

“As you stated, I am your general.” Carefully controlling his expression, Gadreel turns to look at him. “I can search for the rebel Castiel or I can act as your secretary. I await your decision.”

Scowling, X taps his desk impatiently before waving his hand. “Castiel is more important. Not Kabriel, however. They’re a massive pain in the ass.”

Gadreel nods, slowly exiting the room and locking it behind him. The less Heaven is exposed to X’s behavior, the better, at least until there is a plan in place for how to deal with the fall out.

The hallways of Heaven bring comfort, freedom to walk around and see more than a small corner. Completing his tour, Gadreel finds himself in a small, nearly abandoned Heaven, its owner’s memories of a sunny afternoon and love worn into near incomprehensibility. It’s a very old Heaven, begun centuries ago and growing smaller every year. Soon, there will be nothing left of the heaven or its soul.

“Gadreel,” Hannah calls. She leans against the grayish green-brown smudge that was once a tree, watching blurred clouds dance across the sky. “How goes it?”

It’s a complicated question, for all it’s simplicity. “My orders are to locate Castiel, return him to Heaven so he can play his part.”

“X… wants Castiel to play his part,” Hannah says slowly, incredulously, shoving herself back to her feet. Her vessel’s hair is wild, spiked like she’s jammed a hand through it numerous times. “I realize that X’s exile from Heaven included hearing the Choirs, however…”

“He killed Naomi, before the Fall,” Gadreel cuts her off. “He has pretenses at being omniscient.”

“X is far more concerned with the story he wishes to tell than even running Heaven. Naomi and Bartholomew were terrible leaders, but…”

Gadreel sighs and looks around. This heaven is grungy and worn, the last memory of a soul that, if it were expelled, would have no conception of current Earth. “He hasn’t reopened the veil, is avoiding the agreements to unite the fractions.”

Hannah nods. She knows, of course-- her faction is one of those being avoided.

“I worry that as the veil becomes overloaded, a chain reaction might destroy far more than Naomi’s tinkering or Castiel’s rebellions.”

“Have you received revelation, brother?”

Gadreel swallows, shakes his head. “No. But something must be done anyway.”

“That’s rebellion, brother,” Hannah warns him, needlessly.

Nodding, Gadreel closes his eyes. “I’m aware. But what else can I do?”

“Search for Castiel,” Hannah says finally. “Go. Perhaps if X will reopen the veil, allowing souls to enter Heaven, things will become more balanced.”

“Perhaps,” Gadreel says doubtfully before slipping outside. The hallways are bleak and empty, doorway after doorway of souls. He is bleak and empty as well, caught between his duty to Heaven and his sworn allegiance.

* * *

Dean’s fist smashes across the bouncer’s nose, snapping his head to the side. A couple teeth may fly out too, Dean’s not paying that close of attention. He twists to the side, avoiding the second bouncer, pushing him so he flies into the base of the stage.

“What’s the matter, fellas? Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

The first bouncer-- Moe, Dean decides-- spits blood to the floor, turning to check on Curly before straightening up. “Phillis already warned you, asshole. This ain’t that kind of place.”

Dean snorts. “So she wasn’t taking money on the side for our girl, Chevy, over there after her last dance? I might be dumb, but I’m not blind.”

“Get the fuck out,” Chevy demands, clutching an oversized shirt over her costume. “You’ve got no right--”

“Cops are on their way,” Phillis calls over from the bar, phone still in her hand. “Doug said to keep him here.”

Dean rolls his eyes-- like some three doughnut cop is gonna be a threat-- and deliberately turns his back on them. Picking up an onlooker’s drink, he shoots it back with a shudder, dropping the glass to the floor.

A needle of glass flies up, embeds itself into Dean’s face, nearly to his eye. His eyes flick black as he reaches up to pick the glass out. “Now I’m bored. What do you reckon we should do?”

A low whistle captures his attention, Crowley standing by the ATM, looking bored.

“What do you want?” Dean demands, weaving between tables. “Drag me back to my responsibilities or whatever?”

“No, I think we can both agree that you’re far more useful here.”

“Glad you agree,” Dean glances over his shoulder to the shell shocked bouncers. “I’m certainly having more fun.”

“Yes, yes. Howling at moons, so I’ve heard.”

“You’ve _heard_? You set it up and then disappeared.”

“Unfortunately,” Crowley drawls, “as much fun as freaking out the homophobes of small town USA is, there are responsibilities that need to be taken care of.”

“Skip ‘em.” Dean steps forward, crowding Crowley against the door frame. “You know you’d rather spend time with me.” Tracing his tongue along Crowley’s jaw line, he bites-- none too gently-- at the spot behind his ear. “Pick up someone, bring ‘em upstairs, take ‘em apart…”

“Not the lovely Miss Chevy? You were certainly desperate enough for her favor a few minutes ago.”

“Been there, done that. If not her, than someone exactly like her,” Dean says louder than necessary, making sure she hear him. She’ll start crying again and… whatever, he doesn’t care. He has more important things to do, like figuring out which of these sleazeballs has a demon in them. Crowley doesn’t need to be spying on him.

The lights from the cop car start bouncing around the front of the building, barely visible over the stage lights, but enough to warn them. Slipping through the back, Dean tows Crowley with him, through the dressing rooms.

Dean laughs as they they escape, instinctively avoiding the cameras and heading towards the bar that shares the parking lot. If Crowley’s around, there are more interesting things to do.

“What’s your game tonight?” Crowley asks, surveying the roadhouse like he thinks it’s going to live up to his standards.

“Whatever I want,” Dean answers, making eye contact with a pair of twins by the bar. It’s already late, he doesn’t see the point of wasting time. Yellow plaid raises an eyebrow before leaning over and saying something to his brother. “You want one?”

“Of the twins? You think you can manage that?”

“I think I’m _adorable_ ,” Dean says, running a hand through his hair and wandering over to the bar.

He flirts with the waitress too, just to keep his options open-- yeah, he’s been mostly into dick lately, but that could change-- and waits for the twins to respond to his invitation.

It’s David-- yellow plaid-- who challenges him and Crowley to a game of foosball, dragging Dylan over to play with him. A third brother-- Darryl-- perches at a nearby table, chatting up the waitress and watching the game.

Teams are amorphous, switching around as they take breaks to finish their drinks or whatever. Eventually, they stumble upstairs, Dean whispering filthy things in David’s ear while Crowley does them to Dylan. Darryl pinballs between them until Crowley grabs his shirt and pulls him in close.

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for Sam?” Jody asks, looking at him over a cup of coffee. “You’ve only been doing this human thing for a couple weeks.”

“Sam has other concerns,” Castiel says shortly. “He’s searching for Dean in addition to the hotline. There’s no need to pull him away while I search for Cain.”

Jody frowns. “Will Cain even help? Sounds like he was pretty done with humanity.”

“Even if he’s not willing, I can still compel his assistance. Grace or not, I am still an angel.”

“Because he’s had such great interactions with them,” Alex adds dryly, munching on a piece of toast. “Didn’t angels kick his family out of the Garden or whatever?”

“That was a very long time ago.” Castiel winces, looking into the depths of his coffee cup. The pale liquid inside bears little resemblance to the black-- but very sweet-- coffee in Jody’s cup or the cheater mocha Alex assembles on the weekend.

“Five years difference, when you’re thousands of years old? Is meaningless.” Jody leans back in her chair with a shrug. “Even if his parents didn’t tell him the story, the rest of the world has. And he didn’t have a chance to fight back.”

“He murdered his brother,” Alex points out. “He’s not a good guy and you should have back up.”

“Of course,” Castiel agrees, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Who would you recommend? The greatest hunters of their generation, absolutely. One of whom is circling the Midwest searching for the other and pretending Dean being dead is the worst case scenario. Other hunters who might be interested--”

“Are just as likely to go after you for not being human as Cain.” Jody frowns, tapping her fingers on her mug.

“I’ll come with you,” Alex offers. “Skip school today and tomorrow, be back in time for class on Monday.”

“Absolutely not,” Jody refuses. “I get that you hate your tutor, but you’re not going to be skipping school to hunt.”

“I don’t want to _hunt_ , I want to _help_. Patching Cas together again after.”

Leaning back in his chair, Castiel lets them argue. No matter what conclusion they come to, he won’t put them in danger for this. Not when it’s probably a wild goose chase.

“Cas, tell her,” Alex insists, looking at him intently.

“I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe, Alex, and I won’t risk you… Or anyone else. I will be going alone… as soon as I know where I’m heading.”

Jody grimaces, but nods. “Alright. If you insist. But you’re calling me every night to check in.”

He will do no such thing. He’s not a child. “Of course.”

Jody doesn’t look like she believes him, but doesn’t say anything. “Alright then, what do you need for this spell?”

The location spell doesn’t require much in the way of ingredients-- what they don’t already have is easily obtained from the grocery store-- and even less power. There are more accurate and faster spells buried in his memory, but he privileges ease and cost over other considerations, leaving him with several piles of ash on the table and stretch in middle of nowhere West Virginia to search.

* * *

By the time Castiel reaches West Virginia, he’s learned he hates modern country, talk radio is filled with hateful, poorly executed rhetoric, and it’s next to impossible to find anything good on the radio between Sioux City and Fort Dodge.

There was only one town name on the scrap of paper left unburned, to the southwest of the center point. Sighing, Castiel stops at the gas station in town-- also home to the library and post office-- to fill up before starting the slow tedious search of the surrounding areas. That could take days around here, and that’s _if_ Cain is actually living in an established residence. If he built his own cabin, there’s almost no way for Castiel to find him.

It’s not quite cool enough to need his jacket, but he pulls it on anyway as he climbs out of the car. A few locals sit on the porch of the gas station in well-worn rockers, watching as he fills the tank of his borrowed Lincoln before heading inside to grab a sandwich.

“You lost, mister?” the clerk asks while ringing up his purchase.

“My… cousin moved to this area a few months ago. Since I was passing through the area, I thought I’d stop in to see him.”

The clerk laughs. “Bullshit. No one comes through here unless they’re looking for something in particular.”

Castiel nods in acknowledgement. “I changed my route to come closer. He and I have never been close and I’m afraid there might be some disagreements within the family. And well, birds of a feather....”

“We’d know all about that,” the clerk agrees, pulling open a plastic bag to dump Castiel’s purchases inside. “Your cousin, quiet type in his forties, raises bees?”

Castiel nods, taking the bag and his change. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

Glancing around, the clerk nods. “He’s rentin’ the old Barnes place, up the road a bit. Not real friendly, but we’re used to that too.”

“Fair enough. Thank you.” Dropping a few dollars into the tip jar, Castiel heads back to his car. He shoots Jody a text message as the pump finishes to let her know that he’s alive before following the road out of town.

The drive to Cain’s house is a long gravel road with a couple of switchbacks as he goes up hill. It’s remarkably defensible for a rented farm in a nearly deserted part of the state. Castiel watches the trees surrounding the road, catching a glimpse of the occasional raccoon or cat stalking the edges of the road as the sun sinks below the hills.

It’s well past sunset when he arrives, pulling into an unlit clearing with a house at the back. The clearing is filled with huge, oddly shaped molehills, soft areas of recently disturbed dirt to trip the unwary. A light shines from behind curtains and blinds, enough to show the placement of the window but nothing else.

Throwing the car into park, he keeps his hands well away from his pockets, calling “I’m only here to ask you a few questions. I mean you no harm,” towards the house.

The blinds at the front of the house twitch slightly, barely enough for Castiel to catch.

Something crashes in the forest, just on the edge of the clearing. Castiel jerks around to look, catching the rear quarters of a deer jumping back into the woods.

Turning back around, Cain is on the porch, leaning casually against a post. Castiel can’t see much more than that, the porch light is still off and the lengthy shadows of dusk obscure most of the details.

“Who are you?” Cain asks, his voice carrying clearly across the yard.

“Castiel. You met--”

“I don’t deal with angels,” Cain cuts him off. “Demons are bad enough, but angels… they’ll screw you forwards and backwards.”

“I just need some information regarding the Mark and then I’ll be gone.”

Cain thinks for a long time, before nodding. “What do you want?”

Castiel swallows and takes a step backwards. “Dean Winchester was killed. What can you tell me about what happens next?”

“He wasn’t killed,” Cain says flatly. “That you think he was--”

“I am very certain that Dean died.”

“He can’t be killed,” Cain insists. “No matter what he tries, the Mark will keep him alive and lashed to his body, even as his soul starts the transformation.”

Castiel closes his eyes for a long moment. The transformation to demon, of course. Which will happen even faster-- the groundwork in Hell five years ago-- twisting Dean’s soul into a demon… “He’s tied to his body? Cannot leave it?”

“Why so many questions, Castiel? Once a demon--”

“I am aware,” Castiel says harshly, pushing the emotions that are trying to leak out aside. They serve no purpose here, it’s far more important to get the information. “Dean’s a demon then. With a controlling interest in Hell.”

Hell has no idea what is coming. Or what will happen. Powerful beyond expectations and backed by an iron will and Crowley; even if he doesn’t want the throne, it will be Dean’s.

* * *

The sun peeks through insufficient curtains and directly into Crowley’s eyes. Groaning, he tries to roll over, away from the light, before realizing he’s trapped and giving up.

David mumbles something, leaving a trail of damp behind as he nuzzles his way deeper into Crowley’s shoulder. Another one of the brothers-- Dylan, from the hair, although Crowley isn’t sure from this angle-- shifts restlessly, farts, and relaxes back into sleep.

Someone chuckles in the dark corner, watching the bed. “If only your subjects could see you now,” Dean says in what is probably supposed to be a whisper. “Fucked out and used as a pillow.”

Crowley shifts David to the mattress and excavates himself. “They’re your subjects too,” he points out. “Besides, _demons_. They’re too stupid to understand all the implications.”

“They’re smart enough. How are the soul projections this quarter anyway?”

“They’re fine. The Crossroads can take care of itself. Why, do you have something in mind?” Crowley drags his trousers off the chair at the foot of the bed, searching for his shirt while pulling them on.

Dean shrugs, watching the twins in the bed, bodies littered with bruises and flecks of blood. “A thought and something like a plan. I’m bored.”

“Hell is known for its many diversions.” Of a sort Dean has never shown any interest in, but diversions all the same. On the other hand, after the intensity-- and lack of safe words-- last night, it seems Dean’s interests are changing. “I’m afraid bedding half the population of Hell is not in the cards.”

“Not bedding them, no.” In the half-darkness, Dean’s eyes gleam with something nearly unrecognizable. “I’ve got other plans.”

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley steers them out of the room, stepping over Darryl on the floor. “I’m absolutely twitterpated with anticipation.”

Dean shakes his head, staying silent.

“If you’re bored, I have an errand to run. Should be right up your alley.” Crowley drops the room key on the bar top as they pass.

“I’m listening.”

“Mindy Morris, loving mother, caring wife, cheating trollop.” Crowley digs his phone out of his pocket, passing it to Dean as they climb into the SUV. “After her husband walked in on her and the pool boy, well… It was discovered that Mindy wanted a divorce and fifty percent of everything.”

Flicking to the next photo, Dean lets out a low whistle. “Fifty percent is…”

“More than Lester has any interest in giving up.”

“So he sold his soul. For?”

“Her death. He was… unspecific as to how.”

“Really wasted that crossroads deal.” Dean shrugs. “Fail to see what this has to do with me.”

“When was the last time you killed, Dean? The last time the Blade let you have release?”

“I--”

“The Mark and the Blade only want one thing. Death. You’ve managed to keep it sated this long with the hunting, bar fights, and the occasional bigot. But it’s been four days. Soon you won’t be able to stop yourself.” Crowley gestures back towards their room. “You can’t just fuck them to death all the time.”

“You want me to kill her?” Dean huffs, dumping the phone into the cup holder.

“She’s going to die one way or another-- A deal’s a deal. This way, you get something out of it as well.” Crowley shrugs, twisting the key and backing out of the parking spot. Denver’s a day’s drive if they don’t take any shortcuts and Dean needs to be under control before either of them show their faces in Hell again.

Dean makes a face-- like he’s actually considering it-- before settling firmly into the seat. “We’ll see.”

Dean disappears when he stops for gas south of Rapid City. Crowley waits for longer than he should before shrugging and getting back on the interstate. Dean’ll catch up.

He finds a decent bar when he hits the outskirts of Denver, a swanky pub in a rich suburb that focuses on atmosphere. The place is nearly empty, everyone ignoring each other or talking to their partner. It’s quiet, peaceful, the exact opposite of every bar Dean has dragged him to over the past two months.

Crowley enjoys his first scotch alone, people watching, trying to decide if there’s anyone here worth the effort of a sales pitch. There’s a young man over in the corner, flop sweating through his shirt while an older man watches and smokes a cigar. It could be anything, but Crowley suspects something not quite legal. But, if the kid is going to the trouble of finding the local crime boss, he doesn’t need Crowley’s intervention anyway.

The second scotch he texts the current set of bean counters for an update on the reorganization of Hell-- minions report all is well-- and tries to figure out if he can ignore his responsibilities for a while longer.

“Job’s done,” Dean announces brightly, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Sliced, diced, and laid out messy for the cops.”

Too bright, actually, and Crowley is automatically suspicious. “No complications?” Dean’s grasp on his precious morality has been slipping, but Crowley didn’t think it’d disappeared entirely yet...

“Yeah, sure. Les is decorating his car. She’ll be in for a rough couple of days, but there’s nothing to tie her to the hit.”

“Les-- You killed _Lester_?” Crowley hisses. “The client?”

Dean shrugs carelessly, steals Crowley’s scotch and drains it. “You wanted a dead Morris, you got one.”

“I _want_ Lester’s soul. Deal was one dead wife for one soul. If she doesn’t die, I don’t get his soul.”

“Oops.” Dean hums, rolling the empty glass around the table. “What’s it matter? He was a douche, now he’s a dead douche.”

Crowley stares at him in the dim light, blinking rapidly. “Of course it matters, you dimwit!”

Dean grabs Crowley’s hand, pinning it-- painfully-- to the table, his eyes flicking black. “Try again.”

“You know _why_ the Crossroads is one of the most powerful fiefdoms in Hell? _Everyone_ comes through us. We start reneging on our deals, consumer confidence goes down, and Hell is facing the biggest crisis since Lucifer was caged. The first time.” Crowley jerks his hand free. “I give orders, you follow them. That’s how this _works_.”

“No,” Dean says coldly. “It’s not.” Standing, he jerks his jacket into place-- unsubtly flashing the First Blade, as if Crowley forgot-- and heads towards the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Whatever I want,” Dean snarls, turning around to face him. “I’m not your dog, Crowley.”

“You don’t know _what_ you are. If you did, Mindy would be dead. Did you feel _sorry_ for her? So maybe you’re human. Except you’ve also got those pretty black peepers and you’re sleeping with me-- so you’re a demon. So why don’t you make this a lot easier on all of us, and pick a _bloody_ side!”

“Or what? You’ll bring me to heel?” Dean snorts. “Good luck, you ain’t got anything that can. Try it, see how it ends.” He stands in the middle of the bar, arms held out, drawing everyone’s attention. He holds it for thirty seconds before dropping his arms. “That’s what I thought. When I need you, I’ll call. Until then, stay the fuck out of my way.”

Dean steps into a nearby shadow and disappears.

The few patrons in the bar immediately start tittering-- about the argument, Dean’s disappearance, whatever. Ignoring them, Crowley motions for another drink, accepting both the scotch and the murmured sympathy from the waitress a few minutes later. That’s all he needs, for everyone to be watching while he tries to conduct his business.

He forces a chuckle, toasting the air, and catching the eye of the crime lord a few tables over. “It’s always the crazy ones. Good for a fling, but just not relationship material.”

Lordling looks away uncomfortably, focusing again on his young companion. It’s a triumph, if hollow. Pulling his phone out, he sends a text message to minions Three and Four:

_< < Find him and do not let him lose you_

That done, he searches out the contact information of one of Abaddon’s loyalists hiding on Earth. As soon as the minions have a location…

Well, Idiocracy won’t have a chance, but he’ll be a neon sign for Moose.


	36. Chapter 36

“I found another one,” Sam announces when Cas answers the phone. “Drew Neely, listed as a missing person in Ohio five years ago, killed this morning in Montana.”

“That makes… what, six now?” Cas sighs. “With no sign of slowing down?”

“If anything, they’re speeding up. And those are just the ones we’ve caught. If he keeps escalating...” Sam glares at his computer screen, filled with murders and missing person reports. “How’s your investigation into Andrea Williams going? Were you able to find anything else?”

“African-American, in her mid-thirties. About six months ago, she walked into a car dealership, clubbed a salesman to death with a tire iron, destroyed over a million dollars worth of cars, stole the most expensive car on the lot, and managed to evade capture until three weeks ago, when she was found dead in the men’s room of a roadhouse in Wichita Falls, Texas.”

Sam lets out a low whistle. “That’s… wow.” Pulling his laptop over, he tabs to his list of victims, moving her to the definite list. “Definitely a demon then? What happened?”

“Most of the witnesses were gone before the police arrived,” Cas starts, frown audible. “I was able to convince the police chief to send me the coroner report, as an investigator for the insurance company.”

“And?”

“Blunt force trauma consistent with being in a car crash at over a hundred miles an hour-- the top speed of the Lamborghini she stole, I assume-- and stab wounds from an undetermined weapon, presumed home forged.” Cas pauses, although Sam can hear him doing something, metallic snaps and clicks.

“The First Blade.” Sam slumps back in his chair hopelessly. “He has to stop sometime. Eventually. Right?”

“Tell me about Neely,” Cas orders, ignoring Sam’s despair.

“Murdered at a truck stop,” Sam says slowly, paging through the newspaper article again. “But that’s all I know so far.”

“I can be there by morning.”

“It’s probably another dead end, Cas. You shouldn’t--”

“I’m human, not helpless,” Cas bites out. “I understand that you feel that I was impetuous, but--”

“It’s not that, Cas, Jesus. Or not _just_ that.” He tries not to feel guilty. “You should be figuring out what your favorite foods are or what side of the bed you like to sleep on, not hunting down my brother, the demon.”

“Kung pow chicken,” Cas shoots back. “And which side of the bed I sleep on is immaterial until and unless I’m sharing with someone. At which time, I will _adapt_. I understand it’s what humans do.”

Sam blows out a breath and nods, even though Cas can’t see him. “Fine. I’ll text you the address.”

“Thank you,” Cas says simply before hanging up.

Slamming his computer shut, Sam glares at the suddenly too small room. Fight with Sam, Dean’ll shrug it off and not think anything of it. They’ve done worse to each other. Fight with Cas…

Inexperienced and suddenly _fragile_ Cas. That could go bad real quick, and when it does, Sam’s not sure he’ll be able to bring Dean back from the edge.

* * *

Glancing up from his phone, Sam waves Cas and his old Lincoln towards the parking lot at the side of the building.

Cas looks _tired_ when he comes around the corner after parking, like he’s gone a few rounds with every nightmare ever. His skin is downright pasty, and the bags under his eyes look like bruises. “Hey, Cas.”

“Good morning, Sam. Have you spoken to the sheriff yet?”

Sam shakes his head. “We’ve got an appointment in about five minutes.”

They make awkward small talk on their way into sheriff’s department, barely touching on the things that really matter.

“You boys are here about the Neely murder, right?” Sheriff Stout asks bluntly, leading the way into his office. “How’d you pull that one?”

“It’s connected to a series of active investigations,” Cas responds smoothly.

Sam lifts an eyebrow, impressed. Cas really has gotten better at this.

“Sure. I don’t see what sort of connection this can have though. You wasted a tank of gas on this one. We know who did it.”

“Oh?” Sam asks, suddenly alert. “How?” They’ve only have evidence for Dean being at the scene for two of the murders, everything else is just guesswork. Despite Charlie’s reassurances that Dean can’t avoid all the cameras she has access too, he’s been doing a damn good job at it.

“The gas station’s up by the highway. Its got the usual assortment of cameras, but the owner installed a few hidden cameras after some hooligans robbed the place blind last winter. That’s why--” he cuts himself off, watching them sharply. “You’re the FBI, gentlemen, and probably have more experience with this sort of thing. But given what the video shows? This wasn’t murder, it was self-defense.”

“We need to see that video,” Sam blurts out.

Stout taps a few things on his computer before standing and gesturing them behind his desk. “Take a look.”

The counter is just barely visible in the corner of the frame, so the camera catches most of the sales floor. A man in a baseball cap in leans against a rack, paging through a magazine. A second man approaches from behind, a long silver knife dropping into his hand.

“That’s Neely,” the sheriff says quietly. “And the knife shows intent. Never seen Ballcap before, but we get our share of truckers and road trippers. And nothing popped when we ran a search. Unlike Neely.”

On screen, Neely yells something before driving the knife forward. Ballcap steps to the side, grabs Neely’s arm and plants a hand in his back, pushing him forward. Neely’s arm dislocates with a jerk, clearly visible even on video, before Ballcap trips him and sends him crashing to the floor.

The fight escalates from there, Ballcap pulling…

“Shit,” Sam mutters, hitting pause. “Is that--”

“Yes,” Cas growls. “It is.”

“Is that what?” Stout asks from behind them.

“This is definitely related to our other cases,” Sam manages to get out. He doesn’t want to think about why Dean’s fighting small time demons in a random Wyoming town.

“It gets weirder.” Stout reaches over Sam’s shoulder to press play. “I had some of the guys-- ex-military types-- watch the footage. Hat definitely has some training, but not the right sort for former military or a childhood playing at martial arts.”

“He wouldn’t, would he,” Cas says quietly as they watch Dean beat Neely to death. “Do we ever get a clear shot of his face?”

“Just a couple frames before the video is corrupted. I’ve got techs working on it.” Scooting to the side, Sam lets Stout pull up a few more files. “Self-defense or not, we need to talk to this guy. We uploaded this to the wire earlier this morning.”

Sam nods blankly, staring at a wanted poster with Dean’s face looking back out at him. It’s the manhunt after St. Louis and the Leviathan all over again. The only advantage they have is this time no one’s put a name to the face... yet.

“If you don’t mind, Sheriff, we’d like to watch this a few more times. This is the best look we’ve gotten.” Cas stands back, letting Stout slide past him.

“Of course, Agent. I’ll get out of your hair. Let me know if I can help you with anything else.”

“Thank you,” Sam manages before standing and walking Stout to the door. “We shouldn’t be very long.”

Stout nods and pulls the door shut behind him.

“What is he _doing_?” Cas asks, tabbing backwards through the video. “Neely was no threat, just a random demon.”

“A random demon with an angel blade.” Sam slumps into the chair across the desk. “If anything could kill Dean as he is now, that’s it.”

“I doubt it. They couldn’t kill Abaddon.” Cas shakes his head. “If Neely was sent, why only him? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Except it wasn’t only him,” Sam says slowly. “It’s been at least six. It’s almost like a trail.”

“Someone wants us to hunt down Dean.” Cas frowns, tapping his fingers on the desk and watching the video again. “Sending easy, flashy demons to act as red flags.”

Sam nods. “Of course, Dean is still murdering people.”

Cas shrugs, leaning back in the chair. “We’ll have plenty of time to think about it when we figure out who’s behind it.”

“Alright. Send me that video?”

Nodding, Cas bends over the keyboard and starts tapping away.

Sam’s phone buzzes a few times in his pocket and he pulls it out while Cas does his thing. Jody, shit.

_> > Dean’s picture just came across my desk as a wanted poster?_

_> > What’s going on?_

_< < You know as much as we do. We’ve been tracking murder victims that look like they’d been killed with the First Blade, but this is the first time there’s been a camera_

_< < Wasn’t expecting it to get to you that fast._

_> > Sam Winchester, next time you even think there’s a chance this sort of thing is going to happen, you *call* me, got it?_

_< < Yes, ma’am_

His phone goes silent as Cas finishes typing and logs out of the system. “We’ll need Charlie to remove him from the system,” Cas announces.

“I’m sure she’s already on it, but yeah.” Sam shoves his phone back in his pocket and pushes himself back to his feet. “We can call her when we’re done.” They need to call a lot of people.

Cas nods, and pushes himself away from the desk. “We need to talk about what happens after we catch up with him.”

“We fix him,” Sam blurts out. “Purified blood, or whatever. I don’t care.”

“Will that even work?”

“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears. We can’t just--” Sam breaks off before he explodes in the bullpen. Biting his lip, he stays quiet until they reach the Impala. “We can’t just leave him like this.”

Sliding into the passenger seat-- and that is so _weird_ , having Cas next to him instead of Dean-- Cas looks at him. “But that doesn’t explain how we’re going to stop him. Ask nicely when we trap him? He’s a _demon,_ Sam. If there’s any attachment left…” Cas sighs and shakes his head. “It’s a rare for a demon to remember who they were when they rise from the rack. Those that do… Ruby is a far better representative than Crowley.”

“He might not even _remember_ us?” This just keeps getting worse, and it was already pretty damn bad.

“I have no idea,” Cas says dryly. “Dean didn’t rise from the rack. He was human, died, and arose a demon. We’re in uncharted territory, and what lore exists is considered myth even by angels.”

Sam blows out a long breath before starting the car and backing out carefully.

* * *

More angels remain on Earth than he thought-- or they’re slipping back to Earth, following Castiel’s example-- hiding among the humans, using their grace as little as possible to avoid detection. Gadreel keeps track of the larger enclaves, but the others, living in ones or twos and scattered across the world, he ignores. Naomi may have been able to drag them from his memory, but he doesn’t think X will have power to do so.

Naomi was a tyrant, but at least she wanted to keep Heaven intact, rather than endless wars against imaginary enemies.

Gadreel returns to the cornfield he last located Castiel’s grace one last time. He has to be around here somewhere-- there is no way an angel, alone, could escape leaving some trace of themselves-- but he _cannot_ find him. Every bit of grace Castiel had was focused on hiding itself while he found shelter.

Drawing himself up, he casts another look around the lonely field and takes flight, returning to one of the larger enclaves. If Castiel cannot be found, someone else must act as courier between groups.

* * *

Castiel ignores Sam’s interview of the witness at the counter, wandering around the store to get a feel for where the demon had come from. He briefly wishes Dog was around to help-- without his grace, he’s limited to human senses-- but he hasn’t seen her since Gadreel captured him.

The abandoned sedan-- mostly rust-- is parked in the back of the lot, forgotten and ignored. Exactly like one in the back lot of the roadhouse after Andrea Williams’ murder. Biting his lip, Castiel looks at it for a long moment before he jimmies the lock.

Trash litters the passenger seat, years old, probably left here by whoever owned the car before the demon stole it. Castiel searches the car quickly, looking for any clue for why a no-name demon would attack a Knight, why Dean would kill him instead of humiliating him or dragging him back to Hell…

The note drops into his lap when he pulls down the sun visor, black marker on a yellow cheeseburger wrapper in Dean’s distinctive scrawl. ‘ _Let me go._ ’

Castiel snorts. “No,” he murmurs aloud. “Not a chance.” Refolding it, he tucks it into a pocket before resuming his search.

“Cas,” Sam calls.

Glancing around the sedan a final time, Castiel climbs out and closes it carefully behind him. Jogging over to Sam, he asks, “Did you find anything?”

“Kid’s still mostly terrified and covering it up with jokes and sarcasm. About what I expected.” Shrugging, Sam pulls an unfamiliar phone from his jacket pocket. “He did have this, though. Thinks it came from Dean or Neely.”

“What do you think?”

Sam ignores him, pressing the home button on the phone. The screen lights up without a request for a password and Sam navigates through the recent calls and text messages. “Bingo,” he near whispers, showing Cas the screen.

_> >520 E Main, Lewiston, MT_

_> >Abaddon shall be avenged_

Sam scrolls back through the chain-- about a dozen addresses, all from the same unknown number, along the highway. “Someone was tracking Dean and feeding this dude information.”

“But who? There can’t be that large of a Abaddon contingent left.” Castiel frowns, pulling out his own phone and staring at it. “By now, Crowley should have cleaned house-- any survivors of the battle at Lincoln will never be loyal to him.”

“Would we have heard about it if he had?”

“Abaddon died in June,” Castiel says flatly. “Even with Dean as a distraction, Crowley has had time to secure his position in the intervening thirty-three years. Demons aren’t subtle.”

Sam nods in acknowledgement, pulling out his own phone and doing something. “In that case, let’s see who’s spying on Dean.”

The phone rings long enough that Castiel thinks it’s going to go to voicemail, ignored by the owner. At the last moment, the call is accepted. “You should be dead,” Crowley states.

“He is, don’t worry,” Sam says, meeting Castiel’s eyes and raising an eyebrow before nodding to his own phone. “Me though, not so much.”

“I can correct that, if you wish. Calling me from a dead man’s phone, I think you’re fishing, Moose.”

“Where’s my brother, Crowley? What did you do with him?”

“Mostly? Paid his bar tab and debauched a few barflies. Not that it matters, he does what he wants.”

“You know where he is, tell me.”

“I know a lot of things. How are you gonna make it worth my while?”

Watching the tracer app on Sam’s phone, Castiel watches the circle turn green and ‘location found’ pop up on screen. “You know what he is, Crowley. You can’t control him.”

“And Feathers joins the conversation! Hello sweetie,” Crowley says, voice sickly sweet. “By now, you’ve traced my location, assuming Moose isn’t a complete ninny.”

“What do you want?” Sam demands. “You wouldn’t give up your location so easy if you didn’t want _something_.”

“We’re coming to that.” Crowley pauses. “I’ll give you Dean, he’s unstable and a threat. In exchange, I want the First Blade.”

“No!”

Castiel rolls his eyes and sighs. “Sam, it’s a pointless trinket unless he has Dean or Cain. Neither of whom he can hope to control.” Turning back to the phone, he nods. “Agreed. You’ll keep him where you are?”

“Heavens no. He’ll kill me. But the location attached to this number is accurate for Dean. Call me when you have him bundled up and ready for trade.” The line goes dead before Castiel can say anything else.

“What the hell, Cas?”

“What else do we have that Crowley wants? Some minor spell work and that locator will be dead and we’re back to chasing our tails.”

Sam sighs, slamming into the driver’s seat of the Impala. “Let’s go then.”

Silently, Castiel returns to the car, letting Sam peel out of the lot angrily.

The cheeseburger wrapper, with its impossible order, left in a car that Dean had no reason to know they would check, stays folded in his pocket where he can ponder it later. When Sam isn’t on the verge of blowing up.

“I think we should drive separately,” Castiel says quietly. “We might need a second car, one that Dean won’t recognize, if we’re going to successfully capture him.”

“We’ll steal another one.”

“No. I told Jody that I’d keep the Continental, in case she needs it back. And that I would avoid any unnecessary crimes.” Castiel sighs. “What we need is a witch.”

Sam looks over. “You have plan _besides_ giving Crowley the most powerful weapon in Hell?”

“I have an _idea_. And the most powerful weapon in Hell is meaningless without the Knight.”

Mollified, Sam nods, pulling into the parking lot of the police station. “Let’s hear it.”

* * *

“What time is it?” Anne-Marie asks, drowsily. “Bossman will kill me if I’m late again.”

Dean picks up the shitty alarm clock, glances at it, and tosses it back onto the side table. “Too late.”

“Dammit, Dean!” Pushing off the bed, she bundles her hair up in a messy bun. “I told you to hurry up.”

Dean huffs, shrugs. “Oops.” Rolling over, he watches her pull her panties and jeans on. “When you told me to hurry up, did you mean _skipping_ that thing with my tongue? The one you were begging for?”

“Fuck off, you enjoyed that.”

“Something like that anyway,” Dean says with a smirk, fighting to keep his eyes human and green. It’s getting harder. “You could stick around, fuck a few more times.”

Anne-Marie raises an eyebrow as she stomps into her boots. “ _Some_ of us have jobs. That we need to keep.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get too attached. I’ll be gone soon enough.”

“Right,” she says skeptically. “Rolling stone and all that. You’ve said. Several times.”

“You really think I’m the marrying kind?” He stretches out across the bed, reaching lazily for his t-shirt. “Honey, even if I was, it wouldn’t be with you.”

“Wow. That’s…” She shakes her head. “You know, you could have said that a thousand different ways.”

Dean shrugs, throws her button down at her. “Did I hurt your feelings? I ain’t no white knight.”

“No, you’ve made that clear.” Taking a deep breath, Anne-Marie pulls on the shirt before crossing her arms. “You know, for a hot minute, I actually thought you were a decent guy? But no, you’re the same washed up, fucked out jackass that always rolls through here. Selfish prick.”

“Bitch,” Dean shoots back.

She stares at him, mouth opening a couple of times before shaking her head. “The stupid thing is that I’m so fucked up that I actually believe that I deserved that. Get out of here, Dean. Pay your bill and leave.”

“Baby, it’s karaoke night. You know I can’t skip that.” Dean holds his arms out wide, smirking at her. Pete’s not going to kick him out on the word of a mediocre waitress sleeping with the customers, not with the amount of cash that Dean’s throwing around.

Spinning on her heel, Anne-Marie slams out of the room, probably looking for some place to have that emotional breakdown she’s been aiming for all afternoon.

He bypasses the bar, heading out to the parking lot. The Mark is… itchy, for lack of any better word. He brushes it off, stubbornly refusing quit enjoying himself just because some fucked up tribal bullshit wants him to go kill something. Maybe in a few days-- after he’s proven to himself that he controls the Mark, not the other way around.

Glancing deeply into the shadows that surround him on the walk towards the Flamingo, he thinks about returning to Hell, challenging someone else for their throne, just to get a good fight out of it. Gremory was fun, maybe that tree douchebag will be too. Although his kingdom is just jackasses crying about how life was unfair, blah blah blah, woe is me, now I’m stuck in Hell because I couldn’t hack being alive, blah blah blah.

Pass.

Besides, things are stupid whenever he runs into Crowley now. It’s not fun, just awkward. And Dean doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to anymore.

A old Lincoln-- gold, mid-seventies judging by the trim-- slows down as it passes him, the window rolling down and the passenger sticking her head out the window. “Heyya, goin’ anywhere interesting?”

Dean looks her over-- short dark hair, not quite cut into a men’s style, but not very far from it, a dark t-shirt with some design he can’t see from this angle-- and shrugs. “Could be. Depends.”

“On?” she prods, the driver’s hand sliding up to her shoulder before dropping down.

“On what you have in mind.” He relaxes back into the role, he remembers how this goes. He doesn’t need their money, or their car, but this could be fun. The itch of the Mark intensifies, burning through his shirt and jacket, and the Blade solidifies against his back, retrieved from whatever pocket dimension it hides in until he wants it.

“A bottle of whiskey and our hotel room?” she offers with what is probably supposed to be a sultry grin. “I’m sure we can have a good time just the three of us.”

“Sure.” Dean shrugs, reaching for the door handle for the back. There’ll be plenty of time to go back to the Spur for karaoke, or the Flamingo Lounge and whatever is going on there. This is clearly a limited time offer.

Sliding across the seat, he leans over the seat to get a glimpse at the driver. Dark hair is hot and all, but if there’s going to be three of them in that bed--

_Sam_ is waiting for him, twisting around to slap cuffs around his wrists where they dangle over the armrests of the front seats.

Dean slams backwards, into the seat, straining to break the cuffs. Growling and screaming, he tries to force his way out, trapped by the handcuffs and the devil’s trap on the roof above him.

The glamour over Cas fades away, nearly imperceptible changes until he’s back to being _him_ again. “Stop fighting, Dean. You can’t break those.”

“Watch me,” Dean growls, straining the cuffs, trying to push even a little power through them. Nothing, it fails. Fine. He can wait, they’ll fuck up sooner or later.

Sam pulls the car into an empty parking lot a few blocks away, ignoring the ping of gravel against the car’s undercarriage. Jerking it into park, Sam gets out and silently yanks Dean out as well.

Dean barks and snarls, but Sam’s too quick, somehow, and he doesn’t make contact.

Dragging Dean around, Sam forces him down across the hood. He grabs the First Blade from under Dean’s shirts and tosses it over his shoulder. “Cas. Blade.” Methodically, he pats Dean down, removing every knife and lockpick and piling them at their feet.

“What’d you do with my car, Sammy?” Dean digs. “Crash it? Wreck it just like you wrecked me? Or maybe you burned it like you burned Mom and Jess.”

Sam inhales sharply behind him, but doesn’t say anything, just pulls Dean’s shirts back down and shoves him back into the backseat.

The trunk slams behind them, presumably Cas stashing the Blade somewhere Dean can’t reach it, before they start driving again.

* * *

“Moose! You brought Feathers!” Crowley calls joyously, leaning against his SUV and keeping half an eye on Juliet while she plays in the graveyard across the highway.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam mutters.

Dean glares daggers from the backseat of the pimpmobile they’re driving, trussed up and… ah yes, a strip of duct tape slapped over his mouth. Probably not a bad precaution, all things considered. The things that come out of Dean’s mouth… well, nothing his brother wants to hear, he’s sure.

Crowley moves his fingers in an approximation of a wave before turning to face Sam and Cas. “I see you found him. And the other?”

Cas reaches into his coat pocket and pulls a leather wrapped bundle out. Handing it to Crowley, he raises an eyebrow. “You’ll put it somewhere safe?”

“I don’t want Squirrel to get his little paws on it anymore than you do. Someplace utterly secure-- below the crust, on the moon, maybe one of Iran’s centrifuges. I’ll find someplace.”

“I should take that back, let Dean murder you himself,” Sam mutters, frowning and crossing his arms. “Why do you want it anyway? You can’t use it.”

“Didn’t Daddy ever tell you that knowledge is power? A secret is doubly so. Possession of the only thing that can kill Cain? Worth so much more than you think.” Tucking the bundle into his own pocket, Crowley steps back. “Tata. You have a long drive ahead of you, I believe.”

Sam climbs back into the car, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering whee. Taking a couple steps closer, Cas moves so they’re not likely to be overheard. “How many thrones?”

“Between the two of us? Three, plus I reign as King over Hell and everything he gained by combat before Abaddon. Why?”

Cas breathes out. “The loyalty of demons is a tenuous thing. Control of the thrones doubly so. Can you hold it?”

“Can I hold the loyalty of the Crossroads, the Pit, and Dis? Of course.”

Cas’s brow wrinkles, worry etching itself deep into his forehead. “I won’t offer assistance. However--”

“Don’t strain yourself, love. I know what the stability of Hell is worth.” He is almost touched by the concern, for all that he’ll never admit it, no more than Cas will never admit being concerned.

“That’s not--” Sam cuts Cas off, leaning on the horn of the pimpmobile impatiently.

“You know how to call me if you want to make another deal,” Crowley says at normal volume.

Cas rolls his eyes before returning to the car. Even from here, Crowley can see Sam start to bitch him out-- in very un-moose fashion-- before getting on the road.

Crowley watches them head south on whatever god forsaken two lane highway, before whistling sharply for Juliet.

Petting her, he rests his hand on her broad head for a moment before he swallows. “Follow Dean and Cas,” he orders. “Stay with them until Papa comes.”

She barks, once, before loping down the road.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: non-con kissing and panic attacks (not at the same time)

Dean growls and screams and rages the entire trip to the Bunker. Hours of listening to his best friend plotting to kill Castiel in uncomfortable detail. Telling himself it’s not really Dean in his backseat, that it’s the demon Dean’s been twisted into doesn’t help because it’s a lie. It _is_ Dean-- a Dean who was never rescued, was never brought out of Hell, one who enjoyed his work in the Pit.

“I left notes all over the place,” Dean points, _almost_ reasonably after hours of screaming. “You could have avoided all of this, just by following my fucking directions.”

Castiel breathes in deep, the waxy hamburger wrapper shifting in his pocket. “You know we can’t do that. Even if you weren’t our brother, we’re hunters. We can’t allow you to keep going like this.”

“Brother, huh?” Dean asks, eyes glinting cruelly in the rear view mirror. “I suppose that’s one word for it.” He’s silent for a brief moment. “Makes me wonder what you were doing in my bed though.”

“I--”

“Let me guess: that’s a human taboo, not angelic, and you don’t care as long as you’re getting your rocks off.”

“No,” Castiel bites out. “Of course, you deliberately infected yourself with one of the ancient curses on the say-so of the _King of Hell_ , so I suspect that your feelings towards me were less lover-like.”

“Aw, Cas. Don’t be angry. I only did it to get away from you.”

Swallowing, Castiel focuses on the road in front of them and the growing shadows. It’s not true and he knows it’s not true, but it hurts to hear Dean say it anyway.

His phone rings in the seat beside him, jerking his attention towards it. He fumbles it trying to answer while driving, but the two lane highway between Red Cloud and Lebanon is forgiving of brief inattention. “Hello,” he sighs into the speaker.

“Hey, Cas. How are you doing?” Jody asks, concern clear.

“It’s, uh…” He swallows roughly, trying to figure out how to tell her without giving Dean more ammunition.

“That bad?”

“Dean’s in the backseat.”

“I thought you’d sound happier about that.” She pauses for a moment, long enough that he thinks she’s probably cooking dinner. “But I assume he’s being an ass if he’s got you this beat down. He under control?”

“Yeah. Now we see if Sam’s plan is worth the price we paid for it.”

“Holler if you boys need help. You didn’t call and Alex is chomping at the bit to come beat sense into you.”

“ _Don’t do that_. Not until we give the all clear--”

“Don’t worry, Cas. I’m keeping her here-- I don’t want her around Dean right now any more than you do.” Jody chuckles. “Do have a request though: give Charlie a call when you’ve got a chance? She did some poking into things that I’m not supposed to hear about and needs you.”

“Me or Sam too?” Castiel frowns, flicking his eyes up to the rear view mirror again. Dean’s leaning against the seat, singing obscene lyrics. “I don’t think--”

“Yours.”

“I’ll call her when things have calmed down. Thank you.” He ends the call and tosses the phone onto the seat as the power plant attached to the Bunker comes into view over the hill. Almost there.

The Impala is already parked in front, engine ticking as it cools. Sam has propped open the front door with a chunk of rock. “Sam?” Cas calls down the hallway. “We’re here.”

A few seconds later, Sam bustles into view, hurrying up the passage with cobwebs in his hair. “Ready for this?”

Castiel huffs. “Please tell me you found someplace--”

“We have a dungeon,” Sam interrupts, pushing the door the rest of the way open and blocking it. “Honest to God, an actual dungeon. Complete with an iron and silver devil’s trap inlaid in the floor. We found it during the trials.”

Speechless, Castiel stares at him for a moment. “ _Why_?”

“Don’t know. There’s a lot of weird stuff in here-- surely you’ve noticed.”

“The more I learn about these Men of Letters, the less I trust them.”

Sam shrugs. “They’re dead. We can do better, use their knowledge to actually help people.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow skeptically before shaking his head. “We should get Dean inside, where he’s more secure.”

Dean fights them the entire way. He wouldn’t be Dean, in any form, if he didn’t. Handcuffed and with a bag over his head, Dean is slightly easier to manage, but he still manages to make it difficult, cursing and kicking as they drag him inside. The wards let out a single discordant wail as he crosses the threshold then fall silent. Castiel looks askance at Sam, but doesn’t ask. Whatever the answer is, Dean doesn’t need to know. Not until… later. When Dean’s human again.

* * *

“How do you know Claire, Ms. Heinlein?” The director asks, tenting her fingers. It’s a standard social worker’s office: files piled high on the desk, more sticking out the file cabinet behind her, dingy beige walls half hidden by shitty furniture and kids’ scribbles. Charlie’s seen her share, and they all look the same, the only thing that changes is the height of the piles.

Charlie can work with this. It’s not like this is the first time she’s had to deal with authority figures in the foster care system. “Family friend. I’ve been overseas for work for several years and while I knew Jimmy went missing--” She forces a helpless shrug. “I guess there was no one left to let me know when Amelia went missing as well.”

“So you want to remove Claire from care?”

“I want to make sure she’s doing okay,” Charlie admits. “I’m not in any position to take care of a kid right now-- I’ve only been back in the States for about a month. Maybe in the future but…” she trails off, projecting earnestness and competent adult so hard she’s afraid she’s going to burst a blood vessel.

The director-- Phelan, according to the nameplate on the desk-- nods and clicks a few things on her computer. “I appreciate that you went through the appropriate channels for this, Ms. Heinlein. Claire is currently confined to building when not in school, but we can set aside a room for you. Please follow me.”

Ms. Phelan sends someone to fetch Claire before leading Charlie into a boring room with a few chairs and some toys meant for a far younger age group.

“Claire is troubled,” Ms. Phelan says. “Most children in her position are. I’m trusting you to bear her best interests in mind. Do not make her promises you have no intention of keeping. Or might not be able to keep.”

Charlie nods gravely, pretending she’s learning this for the first time, not from years in the system watching from Claire’s side of things.

“This room is recorded, since we have no one to confirm that you actually know Claire. For Claire’s protection.” Ms. Phelan looks at her pointedly before leaving her alone in the room.

She’s not as convinced as she says. Good to know this place isn’t a complete joke. Charlie heaves a sigh and collapses into one of the straight backed chairs at the table, pulling her phone out and sending updates to Jody and Kevin.

Claire slinks in a few minutes later, eyes slitting when she sees Charlie. She glances behind her as the door clicks shut. “Pretty sure I’d remember if Dad had a red head for a friend.”

“I’m Charlie,” she starts. “I think we have some friends in common.”

Claire’s bitchface rivals Sam’s as she crosses her arms and leans against the wall next to the door. “Castiel?”

“Sam and Dean too.” Charlie nods.

“Oh, so the jackasses who ruined my life sent you to make nice? No.”

“Sit down, Claire,” Charlie orders, slipping a bit of steel into her voice. “I’m not dragging you into this, but we need to talk.”

“So you lied to my social worker?” Claire snorts. “I don’t think so. You want something if you went to this much trouble.”

“Yeah, to know that you’re safe,” Charlie shoots back. “I know how this goes. Your dad disappeared, and your mom, and then your grandma died--”

“You don’t know jackshit,” Claire cuts her off. “Are you seriously going to try to convince me that they’re my _family_? You think they want what’s best for me?”

“I think girls who are ‘troubled’ at sixteen are delinquent at seventeen and booted out of the system with no back up at eighteen,” Charlie says flatly, leaning against the table.

For a moment, Claire slips and a scared kid looks back at Charlie. The mask is back in place almost immediately, but something’s changed. Charlie pushes the other chair away from the table with her foot, raising an eyebrow in question.

Claire sprawls into it, legs spread wide to take as much space as possible, oversized hoodie enveloping her. “So who are you?”

“For the purposes of this conversation, Charlie Heinlein.”

“You _are_ a hunter.” Claire perks up immediately, leaning across the table eagerly.

“More… rider of dragons, savior of Oz, queen of Moondoor, and tech support.” She looks at Claire’s excited face and sighs. “Yeah, hunter, kinda.”

“How can you kinda be a hunter? Isn’t that like kinda being pregnant?” Claire looks down, draws some design on the tabletop with her finger before looking back up. “Did the angels fall? Last spring?”

Charlie nods slowly.

“A couple asked. Pulled out the same playbook Castiel did.” She snorts. “Like I’m stupid enough to fall for that twice.”

“There was… a battle, over the summer. In Lincoln,” Charlie starts hesitantly. “You probably saw it on the news. Most of the angels not in Heaven died there. The survivors are hiding. So it shouldn’t be a problem again.”

Claire relaxes a smidge, losing some of the haunted look in her eyes, before she tenses again. “What about Castiel?”

“That’s… complicated,” Charlie temporizes. “You know Jimmy… you know he’s gone right? Even if Cas could--”

“Got it, Dad’s dead. Castiel won’t give up his vessel because he’s got important saving the world bullshit to take care of.”

“Because Cas is human,” Charlie snaps. “Ripped out his grace and Fell. Your dad died years ago-- not long after the last time you saw him. Castiel is more like a… twin. Or clone.”

Claire glares, crossing her arms again and leaning back in the chair. Mentally throwing her hands up, Charlie reaches for a pen and grabs a sheet of paper from the stack of construction paper. Scribbling her phone number across it, she passes it to Claire.

“Call me, okay? I know what it’s like to be stuck in places like this. I want to help you, Claire, but you’ve got to give me a little.”

“Let me know when angels ruin your family,” Claire says bitterly. “Until then, fuck off.”

Charlie nods, pushing to her feet and gathering her bag. “As you wish.”

* * *

The priest mumbles the last of the sanctification over the tray, waving his rosary around and tripping over the Latin.

“Thank you, Father,” Sam says in the waiting silence after, shaking the priest’s hand and slipping him a few bills folded together to better encourage discretion. Although, Sam suspects if he could keep his mouth shut, the priest wouldn’t have been defrocked.

The priest nods, slipping back into the hallway and disappearing into the regional hospital.

Gathering the packets of blood, Sam double checks the blood type before dumping them into the small cooler. The last thing he needs is to kill Dean _again_ while trying to cure him.

Or worse, make it so they have to leave him as a demon. With no chance of fixing him.

Sighing heavily, Sam closes the cooler and slips out of the back room of the pharmacy, trying to look like he belongs here.

The hospital is twenty very needed minutes from the Bunker, time Sam spends going over the spell.

As long as Dean comes out of this alive and mostly sane, Sam doesn’t care what it takes to get it done. The growling, screaming _monster_ pacing in the dungeon isn’t his brother. He can’t be. Even if he knows things that only Dean can know, and there’s brief flashes of Dean in there…

It’s not Dean.

Parking the Impala, Sam sits and breathes for a few minutes, trying to get his head back in the game and bury how scared he is where the demon can’t use it against him. He’d tried earlier, to get under Sam’s skin, _did_ get under Cas’s, but they’re too close to fixing this to fuck up now. No mistakes.

As an afterthought, he digs around in the trunk for the surviving pair of holy fire glasses, sticking them in his pocket before grabbing the cooler and heading inside.

Cas is sitting in the library with his head in his hands and an open bottle of whiskey on the table.

“How’s he doing?” Sam asks quietly.

Cas lets out a rough laugh. “I know what he’s trying to do, I remember all the forms of manipulation Heaven, Hell, and humanity have ever used, and--” he breaks off, groping for the whiskey. “I still couldn’t be in there anymore.”

Frowning, Sam strips off his jacket and tosses it across another chair. “What’s he doing?”

“What demons always do: manipulate and lie, use human nature against their victims…” he sighs, sounding far more upset than Sam’s ever heard. “He knows everything Dean knows, Sam. _Everything_.”

That doesn’t sound too bad to Sam, and like it might actually be a help, but if it’s upset Cas this much… Oh. “So you and Dean...”

“Including his feelings about the fallen angel who’s been following him around for six years. At length. In detail.” Cas swallows harshly before grabbing the bottle again.

“Demons lie, Cas. You know that.”

“They also tell the truth.”

Defeated, Sam squeezes Cas’s shoulder before heading towards the dungeon.

Dean raises his head when Sam pulls open the door, glaring from where he’s bound to a chair. “Heya, Sammy. Did you come to fix me?”

“Yes,” Sam says flatly, dropping the cooler on a nearby table and reaching for the other supplies he brought down here earlier. The light glints off the glass and plastic as he flips open the roll of syringes. “We can cure you, Dean. Remember?”

“Little Latin, whole lotta blood.” Dean sniffs. “There’s not much to it. But I ain’t Crowley and I ain’t gonna sit here and be your pin cushion.”

“Too bad you don’t get a choice.” Picking up the syringe, Sam shoves it in the blood bag, pulling back and filling it. “We’re going to save you.” He takes a couple of quick steps into the devil’s trap, dodging Dean’s abortive lunge, and splashing him with holy water.

Dean growls, rearing back back long enough for Sam to shove the needle into his arm.

Dropping back out of range, Sam watches for a moment before reciting the Latin.

It hits Dean like an electric shock, arching out of the chair and screaming, more intense than Crowley ever was. A couple seconds pass before he sags back into the chair breathing heavily. His eyes flick black immediately. “Do you know what you’re going to have to do when this doesn’t work, Sammy? You’re gonna have to _kill_ me. Do you got the guts for that? Are you gonna find a way to put down a demon that no one’s even seen before?”

“I got your blood type,” Sam shoots back. “You can skip the dramatics.”

A slow smirk spreads across Dean’s face. “You’re not nearly as certain as you pretend, little brother. You have no idea if this is going to work.”

“The lore says nothing about an exception--”

“The _lore_? The lore for this bullshit is a home video from sixty years ago and a botched job on Crowley. _There is no lore_.”

“The lore says nothing about any exceptions,” Sam continues doggedly. “This is going to work.”

“There’s that stupid optimism.” Dean sits there, smirking, watching Sam. After a couple minutes of silence, Dean clicks his tongue before he starts humming the Jeopardy theme, over and over again, with occasional forays into the A-Team and Last Action Hero, off-key and off-tempo.

His watch beeps and Sam has to go through the whole thing over again, dodging Dean’s attempts to fight him, the screaming dramatics as the blood takes effect…

Except the second time, the screaming lasts longer, sounds more strangled. He sounds like he’s dying.

Sam watches him carefully, waiting for Dean to fall back into his chair before relaxing.

Dean coughs, trying to jerk his hand free. “Why are you doing this, Sammy? To save me from being how I always should have been?”

“This isn’t even the real you.”

“How would you know? The me that should have been got buried under your and Dad’s bullshit. So when I got free-- free of you, free of hunting, free of all the guilt and baggage and everything else… this is who I became. The new me. Lean mean Dean. Who can see what you really are.”

“And just what is that?”

Rolling his head from side to side, Dean fixes him with a look, eyes flickering from black to green and back again. “From where I’m sittin’, there ain’t much difference between what I turned into and what you already are.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Sam demands.

“You’re just as bad as me, _brother_. Might even be worse. Or did you think I wouldn’t hear about Lester? Or Tara, or any of the others you got to sign on the dotted line. Crowley was impressed, you know. Quite the sales record.”

“I never--”

“Of course you didn’t. You never _meant_ for any of them to sell their souls just to get you a bead on my location,” Dean says harshly. “But you sure as fuck never gave a shit either once they did. Got one hell of a head start on your future career in contract law.”

Sam drops the needle on the table with suddenly nerveless fingers. “Those were accidents, I tried--”

“Not hard enough.” Dean laughs, long and loud. “Lester’s dead, I killed him myself. Tara too. Dead and delivered. Lester I get, he was a scumbag. But Tara… what did she ever do to you?” Tsking, Dean shakes his head. “You were supposed to be the good guy, Sam. The _hero_.”

Sam turns and flees.

* * *

Sam snatches the bottle away from Castiel, taking several rough swallows before dropping it back on the table.

“Sam?”

“Sorry, Cas. I--” Dropping into the chair, Sam shakes his head. “I was doing ok, but…”

“He got to you,” Castiel says flatly, watching the slight tremble to Sam’s hands as he reaches for the bottle again. “I warned you, he knows all our weak spots.”

“That’s one way of saying it,” Sam mutters. His hands fidget, rubbing into each other before breaking apart and then repeating the pattern.

Sighing, Castiel looks at the the level in the bottle and passes it back to Sam. “How long until the next injection?”

“Twenty minutes, more or less. I just… I can’t be in there right now.”

Nodding, Castiel reviews the spell on the sheet of paper before pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. The floor moves under him, staggering to one side before it smooths back out. It takes far more effort than it should to reach the kitchen, trailing a hand against the wall for stability.

Castiel presses the button the coffee maker to make it do its thing, staring at it intently from the table. The coffee takes too long to brew, dripping into the carafe below so much slower than he needs.

“Screw it,” he mutters, and dumps the pot into his mug, following it up with several spoonfuls of sugar.

He already feels more attentive when he’s drained the cup, less wobbly when he stands.

Somehow, the hallways leading to the dungeon have shifted, the formerly straight hallway now curving away from the dungeon repeatedly, almost forcing itself into a spiral. It’s not the first time he’s noticed something off, but this is definitely the most obvious change.

Even the Bunker thinks they should lock Dean away forever.

“I should have known you’d be back,” Dean says. “Always underfoot and in the way, that’s our Cas.”

Castiel bites his lip, forcing himself to stay silent, drawing out another dose of blood from the bag. Flicking it to dislodge any air bubbles, he takes a deep breath before approaching the trap.

Dean rips his arm free of the ropes holding him to the chair, latching into Castiel’s shirt and pulling him close. The kiss is a mockery of intimacy, harsh and unforgiving, Dean’s tongue invading Castiel’s surprised mouth. Instinctively, Castiel bites down, hard, teeth digging in.

Dean jerks his head backwards, ripping his tongue free, blood spilling down his chin.

Gagging on the blood that fills his mouth, Castiel jumps backwards, dropping the syringe. It shatters, sending shards of plastic and blood across the floor. “What--”

“You were a good lay once, wanted to know if it was still true.” Settling back into his chair-- he makes it look like a throne-- Dean licks his lips, hissing. “It might actually be. Was a good try anyway. Guess we’ll need to find some privacy to know for sure.”

“I’m not--”

“Sure you will. Human or angel, you’ve always been a slut for me.” Dean watches him with keen eyes, Castiel doesn’t know for what. To see how closely the hit lands, probably.

Turning his back on Dean, Castiel leans on the table, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths. “I expected more from you,” he says slowly. “The Host told me that long ago. Generally before torturing me into submission.”

“What I want to do to you--”

“Is far more painful than what the Host could even imagine, I’m sure.” Approaching Dean again, he catches the flailing hand and pins it to the chair arm while he plucks at the ropes to untie them. It takes a few seconds to lash him back to the chair, but eventually he manages.

Returning to the table in the corner, Castiel grabs the bottle of holy water and another dose of blood. Flinging the holy water at Dean, he forces himself to ignore the hiss of the water etching Dean’s skin like acid, and shoves the needle deep into Dean’s arm and pressing the plunger. He recites the spell as an afterthought, focused on Dean.

Dean collapses into the chair, all the fight leaving him before his spine locks up, arching out of the chair.

Castiel ignores his own common sense, resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder, trying to bring him some comfort. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Dean mumbles. Green eyes flick open, meeting his gaze for the first time. “Cas, let me go. Let me out of here.”

Castiel shakes his head. He doesn’t need to see Dean’s soul to know they’re not done yet. “You can beat this, Dean. Your soul was never destined for this.”

Dean erupts into harsh laughter, echoing off the concrete walls of the small room, nearly deafening. “The Righteous Man? What a fucking _joke_. Angels and demons, hunters and monsters, all of it. It means _nothing_. Never has.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Sure I do, Cassie. I’ll even prove it to you: let me live my fucking life. You’ll never see me again.”

“Until you kill again and we have to stop you.” Castiel backs out the trap, watching Dean carefully. “If you leave here, it will be as a human.”

“If,” Dean pounces. “ _If_ I leave here, it will be human. A weak, puny human with a hole in his heart. And a trumped up tramp stamp that will never let me stay human and won’t let me die.”

“We’ll find a way,” Castiel insists desperately. “We’ll get rid of the Mark. Dean, you just have to let us--” He falls silent. It’s a manipulation, of course. But he can’t let it go. Can’t let Dean think there is anything that will make Castiel leave. “I’ll follow you, even if the Mark takes control.”

“You really mean that,” Dean says, half wonderingly. “But that’s not what I want. I want freedom, Cas. From society, from Sam, from you.”

Closing his eyes and swallowing, Castiel shakes his head. They can’t, won’t. Readying another injection, he turns to look at Dean. “Please don’t bite me again.”

“You didn’t seem to mind a little blood earlier,” Dean mocks, leaning back. “Is that what this is? Some sort of sexy kink thing? That would explain the medical play.”

“No. I’m trying to _save_ you.”

Dean snarls and growls, but it’s weaker. Maybe the blood is having an effect.

Holding his breath, Castiel quickly jams the syringe into Dean’s arm. Dean jerks his arm as he does, forcing the needle and blood into the Mark.

Dean screams, long and drawn out. The Mark of Cain _bubbles_ , giant boils forming over the surface and breaking open, blood and infection green searing the skin around it, a chain reaction of pain and poison and blood across Dean’s entire arm.

The reaction keeps going, spreading across all the open skin, and Dean keeps screaming and Castiel has no idea if he should call for help or wait or--

“What the fuck did you _do_?” Sam yells, running into the room and ripping the needle out of Dean’s arm. “We’re trying to _save_ him, not kill him.”

“I--”

“Get out of the way,” Sam orders, shouldering Castiel out of the devil’s trap. “If we don’t get this under control--” Sam strips off his overshirt, wrapping it around Dean’s arm and putting pressure on it. “Go get the first aid kit.”

“Sam, I--”

“Cas, now!”

Biting his lip, Castiel rushes out of the room and sprints down the hall.

* * *

Sam lifts the corner of the makeshift bandage, checking to see if the boils have stopped splitting open. Dean could tell him that nothing has changed, that his arm is still oozing… but where’s the fun in that?

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean purrs. “What do you think, am I gonna live?”

“Of course you are--”

Dean’s fist plows into Sam’s face, pushing him off balance. Snapping the chair arm free of the seat-- turns out, hundred year old chairs _are_ good for something-- Dean punches him again.

Sam falls to the floor, unconscious.

Good enough.

Scoffing, Dean tosses Sam’s shirt aside before undoing the last of the ropes tying him to the chair and dropping them to the floor next to Sam.

The trap stings as he crosses it, like a fresh sunburn. Nothing compared to the Mark or getting shot.

Once he’s free of the trap, he pulls the handcuffs off and drops them on the table. He doesn’t have much time-- needs to be elsewhere before Cas gets back with that first aid kit.

Thank fuck for weeks of wandering around this hole in the ground. He can slip by Cas and get outside before anyone even notices. And once he’s there… he needs to have _words_ with Crowley. Possibly more than words.

Slipping out the door, Dean heads deeper into the Bunker, searching for the way out.

* * *

Falling to his knees, Castiel quickly reaches for Sam’s pulse, holding his breath and hoping--

There. Not as strong as normal, but steady.

Castiel drags Sam out of the devil’s trap and into the storage room where he’ll be out of the way. Propping him up in the corner, Castiel rushes back towards the computer room and the main control for the warding.

He doesn’t see Dean for the long minutes he’s searching for the computer room-- it’s moved, there is definitely something going on with the Bunker, and there’s no time to investigate it-- but he finally slams the ward override back into place, turning them back on.

Immediately, the Bunker goes into lock down.

Emerging from the computer room, Castiel sighs in relief. Dean’s still here, still trapped in the Bunker.

“Where’d you go, little piggy?” Dean’s voice echoes down the corridor. “Locking this place down, that’s smart. Where you goin’ next?”

Swallowing, Castiel moves down the hall, away from Dean, frantically trying to figure out what he’s going to do.

* * *

Dean listens to Cas scurry, rat-like, past the kitchen before digging through the junk drawer in search of something that will get his point across. Emphatically.

Making his choice, he resumes his stalking. The hammer feels good in his hand, balanced. It’s not as comfortable as the First Blade, but he’ll take what he can get.

* * *

“Wha--” Sam starts before a hand presses over his mouth, an ungentle request to be quiet.

“Where’s the demon killing knife?” Cas asks urgently, lifting his hand one finger at a time.

“In my jacket,” Sam whispers, brow furrowed. He’s missing something. “In the library. What hit me?”

“Dean.” Cas sits back on his heels, releasing Sam entirely. “The injection went wrong, you came down to help and… I don’t know. But Dean’s loose.”

For a heartstopping moment, Sam thinks he means that Dean’s out of the Bunker, wandering the world while they’re trapped in here, unable to get out. But the alarm is going, lights flashing red. “Did he--”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t know what went wrong.”

“No, Cas. Did he escape?”

“Lock down traps him same as it traps us.”

“Yeah.” Sam swallows, trying to find a plan, or something that could be one eventually. “That’s something at least.”

“If we can get the demon killing knife--”

“We’re not killing Dean,” Sam hisses. “We didn’t get this far just to kill him.”

“Find a way to control him then.” Cas pushes himself upright and leaves, his jaw tight.

Sam levers himself upright, walking into the dungeon behind him. The chair is destroyed, arms broken off and legs splintering, but that’s the worst of the damage. The trap itself is intact, and… thank fuck, the warded handcuffs are dropped in a messy pile on the table next to the blood.

He hears a quiet growl from the corner, deep and rumbling. Spinning around, he stares at the far corner of the room, hidden in shadows. “Who’s there?”

There’s no answer, of course there isn’t, that would make his life easier. Pocketing the cuffs, Sam slowly backs out of the room, leaving it open. Whatever is in there-- he has his suspicions-- can come and go as it pleases until they can take the Bunker off lock down.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Dean singsongs down the hallway. “C’mon, Sammy. Don’t you want to play?”

“Not particularly,” Sam mutters. “Dean, we can fix this,” he says louder. “You just have to let us finish.”

“I don’t want to be cured, Sam. I _like_ the disease.”

“This isn’t you. This _can’t_ be you.”

“Surprise, Sammy. It really is.” Dean emerges from around the corner. “I don’t want to kill you. It’ll be more trouble than it’s worth, but brother, you’re not leaving me much choice here.”

“So you’re going to kill me?”

“You, Cas. Crowley too, just for good measure. And then I’m going to disappear.”

Sam backs down the hallway, past the dungeon, allowing Dean to herd him towards the rear of the Bunker.

Dean smirks as he stalks forward, idly swinging the hammer from side to side, breaking the occasional tile with a crash.

The hallway ends, a blank wall pressing into Sam’s back with no escape. (Since when did this hallway dead end? There should be at least two turn offs--)

_Fuck_.

“Never should have let yourself get cornered,” Dean snarls. He swings the hammer, breaking through the tile next to Sam’s head, and yanking it free. “This isn’t going to end well for you.”

There’s a sudden bark and the scrabble of claws on concrete before Dean is ripped away, tossed into the wall.

Sam can’t see what’s attacking Dean, but he’s not going to let the chance pass him by. Digging in his pocket, he grabs the handcuffs. “Cas, help!”

Cas appears out of nowhere-- had he been invisible?-- with glasses perched on his nose, shouldering the hellhound aside and holding the demon killing knife to Dean’s throat. “It’s over, Dean. _Stop_.”

Dean bucks and nearly throws Cas off, snarling and growling. Cas slams his weight back down, pinning Dean with a knee to the chest.

Even with the invisible weight of a hellhound across his legs, and pinned like a bug under Cas’s knee, Dean fights. It takes all three of them to keep him from escaping.

Slowly, cautiously, they get Dean flipped onto his front, handcuffing him and then adding zip ties... just to be safe.

The green infection still oozes from the Mark, but less caustic, no longer opening boils and blisters wherever it touches. Sighing, Sam meets Cas’s eyes. “You think we need to call Crowley in? He’s the only one who might be able to heal--”

Cas shakes his head. “There’s no point. There’s no grace to use.”

“What about yours?” Sam asks.

“It’s not here, and even if it was...” he shakes his head. “It’s a rag, Sam. Barely useful as anything besides a nightlight.”

“I know what we can do with it,” Dean gasps out. “It’d make great lube. Always did before.”

Cas’s face burns red.

Rolling his eyes, Sam grabs Dean’s shoulders and starts to pull him up. “Shut up.” He pulls Dean down the hallway, away from Cas and back to the dungeon. “How did you get out anyway?”

Dean huffs. “The more human you make me, the less the trap and cuffs work. They only work on demons, Sammy.”

At least the ritual is working then. Sam swallows. “Cas, I need another pair of hands and a new chair in here.”

Dean starts to smart off again, trying to irritate Sam into punching him or something along those lines. Blowing out a breath, Sam tightens his grip on Dean’s arm, waiting for Cas.

* * *

“I don’t know what to do,” Charlie says quietly. “She doesn’t trust me, and there’s no reason for her to. But I can’t just leave her there.” Frowning, she plays with the label on her beer before looking up. “Sorry, it’s been a long week.”

Ro smiles at her over her glass of wine, her dress sparkling in the low light of the bar. “No, love, you’re clearly upset. If you need to vent…”

Charlie takes a deep breath, pushing her worry about Claire to the side. She’s on a date with one of the hottest women in this town, she’s going to focus on her. “It’s just my job. Nothing that won’t still be there on Monday.”

“In that case,” Ro’s smile is brilliant as she leans across the table, moving her wine glass and Charlie’s beer to the side. “Perhaps we can come up with something happier to chat about. How are your young charges doing?”

Charlie relaxes a bit, telling stories of what Kevin and Gavin had gotten up to over the last week-- a fight that nearly came to blows about clothing quality-- and lets herself blow off some steam, flirting with Ro.

* * *

Sam sucks in a breath over by the table, fumbling open the holy water again and splashing it over Dean. When there’s no response, he nods silently.

Dean’s arm is red and inflamed, but the boils have healed. Blinking up at Cas after the last injection, he feels nothing so much as _tired_.

Dean sags in his chair, resting his head against the back and staring at the ceiling in tense silence. It takes far longer than it should to gather the energy to lift his head, look over to Cas and Sam. “Heya, fellas,” he grates out hoarsely. “You look worried.”

Cas stumbles forward, pulling a knife from somewhere and jerking it through whatever they’re using to handcuff him. He pauses for a moment before untying the ropes holding Dean to the chair.

“Seriously, guys. What the fuck did I _do_?”

“You were a demon, Dean.” Sam huffs, then yawns. “You did what demons always do.”

“I suspect you’ll remember if you give it some time,” Cas says stiffly. “Please lean forward.”

Swallowing, Dean does as he’s told, listening to Cas unlock the handcuffs-- they were really working the redundancies, Jesus-- and pull the rope free from his legs. Moving his arms back in front of him, Dean tries to shake the pins and needles out.

“Okay, you’re good to go,” Sam says, still staying outside the devil’s trap.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean shoves himself to his feet and almost collapses. Cas wraps an arm around him, supporting him like he always has, but…

“Really, guys. What did I _do_?”

Sam shakes his head and looks away. There’s a trickle of dried blood near his hairline and a fresh black eye that Dean doesn’t…

“Let’s get you out of here and we’ll talk about it,” Cas insists carefully, loosening his hold on Dean’s waist.

Swallowing, Dean shakes off Cas’s help and stumbles out of the devil’s trap, pretending he doesn’t hear twin sighs of relief behind him. “I’m starving, do we have any food around here?”

Sam snorts, pushing past him and heading towards the door. “I’ll grab something. Want anything in particular?”

Dean tries to listen to his body, what it wants besides ‘food, a lot of it’ but there’s nothing… it’s like it barely even recognizes him. Shaking off the confusion, he shrugs. “Bacon, cheese. Pie.”

“Right, one bag of cholesterol coming right up. Cas?”

“A cheeseburger, please. And fries.”

“And yet more cholesterol. You both realize you’re going to have to eat vegetables eventually, right?”

Cas chuckles behind him, placing a hand lightly on Dean’s back. “You keep saying that.”

Sam shakes his head and heads down the hallway. Leaning against the wall, Dean watches him go before turning back to Cas. “You gotta tell me, Cas.”

“You really will remember on your own, if you let it come.” Cas sighs. “Forcing it…”

Dean swallows, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was a demon, you said. Better or worse than when I was in Hell?”

Cas shakes his head, steering them towards the bathroom. “Get cleaned up. I’ll bring you fresh clothes while you shower.”

“Better or worse, Cas?”

“It’s…” Cas sighs, frowning and avoiding Dean’s eyes. “On Earth, you mostly hung out in bars, sang karaoke poorly, and engaged in a particularly brutal form of social protest.”

“What about when I wasn’t on Earth? Just tell me.”

“Took control of the Pit and killed the duke of Dis, claiming it by rite of combat,” Cas blurts out in a rush. “There might be others, it’s unclear, and for obvious reasons, Crowley was disinclined to provide details.”

Dean’s knees go out from under him, dumping him on the bench. “I did _what_?” Holding up a hand, he shakes his head. “No, don’t-- Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Cas nods jerkily, turning on his heel and disappearing out the door.

Dean watches him go blankly. He can’t… how did he-- The noise from the shower is drowned out by a high pitched drone. Blinking rapidly, he watches his fingers dig into his arm, nails tearing into the Mark, trying to rip it out, but it doesn’t move, doesn’t hurt.

It doesn’t even feel like it’s happening to him. Flashes of other places, other people, other...

He loses track of time, watching small drops of blood form and trickle down his arm, staining his jeans and…

“Dean!” Cas snaps his fingers in front of his face.

Dean slams back into his body, flinching backwards and nearly toppling off the bench. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“Are you-- I brought you fresh clothes. You should shower.”

“Yeah. Sure, Cas.” Biting his lip, Dean stands and starts stripping. “We should burn these,” he says. We should burn me, he doesn’t say.


	38. Chapter 38

Sitting at the kitchen table, Castiel flips through the possible hunts he’s found and pushes the computer towards Sam. “He thinks you despise him. Get out of here, go hunt. Show him that nothing’s changed.”

“Things _have_ changed,” Sam points out, avoiding the laptop and wrapping his hands around his coffee mug. “Some of the shit he was saying…”

“Sam--” Castiel grimaces, holding onto his own coffee, wishing it was something stronger. “We’ve all said things we don’t mean. None of us have any moral superiority.”

Sam screws up his face. “So what, go hunt, pretend this shit doesn’t matter?”

“It’s fine, Sam,” Dean interrupts quietly, slinking into the kitchen and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I… I wouldn’t want anything to do with me either. You two take care of whatever hunt that is, and I’ll stay here.” He stays well away from the table, hunched over his coffee.

“You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding in the Bunker,” Cas says firmly, reaching over to drag Dean over to the table. “It’s been over a month and you’ve not even left to go to the store. You always insist that if you can’t do anything else, hunt. So _do that._ ”

“Fine,” Dean bites out, tight-jawed. “Do you got something?”

Nodding towards the computer in front of Sam, Cas curls back into his coffee cup. “There’s three possibilities there and I’m sure the two of you can find others.”

“What about you?” Sam demands. “Or are you staying here?”

“Charlie wants to meet up for something. I’m meeting her in a few hours.”

“You don’t want her to be around me,” Dean says flatly. “Or Kevin.”

“I have no idea what she wants. She refused to tell me anything other than it’ll be easier explained in ‘meatspace’, whatever that means. I suspect she wants to ask questions about warding or Gavin, but that’s a guess.”

Dean doesn’t look convinced, biting his lip and looking towards his room.

“So we get back in the saddle and you help Charlie. Sounds good to me.” Sam frowns, twisting the laptop around. “Dean, you wanna get in on this?”

It’s obvious that Dean does _not_ , but he gingerly sits at the table next to Sam.

Silently, Castiel sighs and leans back to finish his cup of coffee. He still has a few minutes before he needs to leave for his meeting with Charlie.

* * *

“Your highness?”

Crowley grits his teeth, not bothering to hide his irritation. “What do you want?”

“During your recent sojourn on Earth--” and she’s off, babbling about something that Crowley really could not care less about and bloviating on her own importance.

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley waits for the demon to stumble to halt, tripping over her own tongue. “Whatever that was, _no_.” He waves a hand expansively. “Next?”

“But sire, if you allow me control of Dis, I can increase--”

Boredom forgotten, Crowley stands, staring down at the moron. Time to remind them again who rules Hell and why. The demon explodes into dust, coating the throne room in a layer of former demon. “Anyone else?”

The court cowers against the walls, only a few of them bothering to even meet his eyes.

Were they always this stupid?

Sighing, Crowley fights through the day-to-day tedium and research, keeping Hell ticking over before the urge to burn the entire place to the ground grows too strong.

Reports show the Crossroads’ counts are down, and will be for the foreseeable future, but Crowley just can’t bring himself to give a damn. Reagan's war on drugs is ending and with it, the decades long flood of souls. Crowley makes a note to reread Reagan’s contract-- his soul should be bound to Hell for perpetuity, but it never hurts to check your minion’s work. (He read over it years ago, of course, but that was before Dean taught him all new ways to break contract.)

Dis is doing whatever a city of the damned is supposed to do. Mostly self-governing, demons pass through regularly to Earth and back, tempting humanity and dragging them closer to… whatever. Not the apocalypse anymore. They recognize his regency, and that’s really all Crowley cares about.

The Pit is… unsettled. The throne refuses to recognize him as regent. While the demons working within do, it’s resentful and barely bothering to hide their doubt. It won’t ever fully be under his control. Perhaps when--

He cuts the thought off ruthlessly. No need to count those chickens yet. Dean is still a Winchester, still exceptionally talented at finding a way to do the impossible. It won’t do to repeat the mistakes of Michael and Lucifer, Zachariah and Lilith.

All the same, when Dean is back by his side, maybe this will feel a little less pointless.

* * *

Sam watches Cas leave the kitchen, cup of coffee still in hand, before turning back to Dean and the laptop still on the table. “Looks like we’ve got… werewolves in Washington state or something ghost-y in North Carolina.”

Dean stays silent, staring after Cas, looking like he’s been betrayed.

“Dean. Hunt.” Sam waves his hand in Dean’s face, waiting for his attention. “Anything catching your attention here, or?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Dean blurts out, his voice tight. “Whichever you want to take care of.” He taps his arm where the Mark lurks under his shirt, a quickly controlled wince flashing across his face. “I’m running dry on research for this thing anyway.”

Sam looks at him, the tension in Dean’s shoulders, the way Dean won’t meet his eyes, and nods. “North Carolina, then. The weird ghost.”

Dean nods tightly, pushing away from the table and his still full cup of coffee. “Meet you at the car.” He disappears into the depths of the Bunker, a ghost that never was.

Sam watches him go, frowning. Even beyond recovering from his stint as a demon, Dean’s been quiet and withdrawn, hesitant to get back to their baseline. Cas is right-- this isn’t the first time they’ve said unforgivable things to each other, and they’ve always found a way past it. But somehow this feels different.

And maybe that’s it. He doesn’t trust that the cure will stick, that he’s not going to wake up in the middle of the night and Dean will be gone, a path of blood and destruction in his wake.

Pushing it aside, Sam double checks that his bag is full of clean clothes and shoulders his backpack before heading up to the garage.

Dean’s there already, leaning over the trunk of the Impala and rearranging something. Spinning around when the door bangs open, he catches sight of Sam and plasters on a grin so obviously fake that Sam can’t believe he’s supposed to take it seriously.

But it’s not worth mentioning. Not when things are still tense between them.

Sighing, Sam elbows Dean aside, tossing their bags into the trunk and closing it. “You driving?”

“Duh,” Dean shoots back. “You don’t treat her with the respect she needs.”

“You left her in a parking lot. Those dings are not my fault,” Sam says automatically, thoughtlessly, before freezing. It’s the first overt mention either of them has made and…

Dean blows right past it. “You should have picked her up faster.”

Dropping into the passenger seat, Sam pulls up the news articles related to the hunt and gets settled.

* * *

Castiel meets Charlie in a quiet roadside diner just off the old US highway. He’s early, the drive took far less time than he expected, so he settles into a small corner booth with a smile at the waitress and tries puzzle out why Charlie needed his attention-- no matter what is going on, surely Sam or Dean would have been a better solution.

Charlie hurries in eventually, wind-blown and damp from the late autumn rainstorm, gesturing towards him when the waitress approaches.

“Coffee, cream please, and something warm?” She asks as she slides into the bench across from Castiel. “Meatloaf or a burger… something along those lines.”

“The special’s chicken fried steak. That good?” The waitress asks, flipping over Charlie’s coffee cup. “I’ll be back with the coffee in just a moment, hon.”

“Thanks,” Charlie breathes out, pushing her hair out of her face and shrugging out of her jacket.

They spend a few minutes catching up, two friends meeting up on their respective road trips, until Charlie has coffee in front of her and the waitress has wandered off to flirt with the cook.

“I expected to hear from you weeks ago,” Charlie says, stirring in a second packet of sugar. “I know I said it wasn’t an emergency, but--”

He cuts her off. “Curing Dean took precedence.”

“You don’t need to jump down my throat.” Charlie leans back, keeping her hands wrapped around her coffee cup. She still looks cold, despite the brightly colored flannel she’s wearing over her t-shirt. Reaching into her bag, she pulls out a manila envelope and tosses it on the table. “Just some shit that really does need your attention. Couple of things, actually. One: that envelope.”

Raising an eyebrow, Castiel pulls up the adhesive holding the flap closed and peers inside. Several official looking forms look back up at him, along with a driver’s license and a passport. “How…?”

“If you’re going to be down here in the dirt with us, you need ID. Sam and Dean have been busy, so I took care of it.” Charlie shrugs. “Jody did _not_ help, but she did ask useful questions for me.”

Reaching in, Castiel shakes free the driver’s license. His own face stares back at him next to Jody’s address and... “Mills? She didn’t… Charlie, I--” he cuts himself off before he can tear up, dropping the card back into the envelope and pushing it into the pocket of his trench coat. “Thank you.”

She grins at him from across the table. “Glad you like it. Because part two is less happy-useful.”

Of course. Blowing out a breath, Castiel nods. “Alright.”

“Part of creating Castiel Mills was killing Jimmy Novak,” she says bluntly. “He’s not been missing long enough to be able to do it in absentia, which makes this whole thing much more complicated.”

“Jimmy went missing in 2008 and died in 2009. Surely by now--”

“Yeah, he did. And then _someone_ showed up on national news two years later, proclaimed himself the new god, healed the sick, smote the wicked, _massacred the entire staff of a wannabe senator_ …”

Castiel stares at her for a moment, trying to figure out what his actions while under the control of the Leviathan have to do with declaring Jimmy legally dead. “Oh. I was seen. Very much alive and committing mass murder.”

“Bingo.” Charlie points her fork at him. “So that’s slowing things down.”

“Why are we discussing it then?”

“Because Jimmy had a family.” She says flatly, like it’s of no more importance than what type of milk he drank, or how he took his coffee, or--

“Amelia and Claire.” Biting his lip, he tries to remember anything about them. Claire had been almost too young to consent to be his vessel, but was willing to do whatever it took to save her father. Amelia is blurrier, unimportant except as Jimmy’s spouse and Claire’s mother. “Are they okay?”

Charlie snorts. “ _Now_ you remember them.”

She’s furious, Castiel realizes. Justifiably so. “Charlie, I--”

“Spare me. I know you were busy, the frackin’ apocalypse took precedence, but for fuck’s sake, Cas. You couldn’t spare ten minutes to tell them he was dead?”

Castiel looks down, nudges his plate and fork to the side, guilt rising hot and heavy. He’d never thought about giving the surviving Novaks closure, never thought about even the possibility that they would be missing their husband and father. “I have no real excuse.”

“Damn right you don’t,” Charlie says fiercely. “Jimmy fucked off and then, a couple years later, so did Amelia. Chasing after a faith healer in Colorado.” She glares at him knowingly before taking a deep breath and a drink of her coffee. “The state has given up on finding a good placement for Claire. She runs away or scares them with all the ‘devil worship’ shit.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he manages.

“I talked with her,” Charlie reassures him, although he doesn’t think she meant to. “A couple times. It’s nothing serious-- the sort of shit teenagers do all the time, and in her case, more designed to keep the demons and angels _away_.”

“If she’s doing ok, what do you want from me?”

“At some point, you might want to, ya know, apologize for destroying her family, but I don’t think either of you are ready for that right now.”

Castiel sighs, finishing his coffee. It’s not the first responsibility being pushed off to the future, but it already feels like it’s going to be the hardest.

Her fury mostly drained away, Charlie turns back to her meal and they move to slightly lighter topics.

* * *

They’re not in their twenties anymore and eighteen hour drives don’t come as easy as they once did. They stop for the night somewhere east of St. Louis and Dean distracts himself from how easy it would be to find a shitty bar, and disappear into the night-- for good this time-- with old reruns of Dr. Sexy.

Sam _does_ find a bar, dropping Dean off at the motel and leaving immediately.

He comes back hours later smelling like beer and maybe sex and Dean can’t help but wonder when that started happening. When Sam started drinking like this, when he began blowing off steam with sex and pool while Dean sits at the motel and does research or watches shitty tv.

The Mark itches and burns all night, keeping him tossing and turning, even after Sam passes out. He’s exhausted before they get on the road the next morning and they’ve still got another eight hours to go.

He’s tired all the time anymore.

Cas texts him throughout the day, small silly things with dozens of emojis and surprising insight into humanity. Dean hadn’t thought about Cas being human and alone and on the road by himself until the first text-- _Northern Missouri is boring_ \-- came through and then it’s all he can think about.

Cas has a good head on his shoulders, and Jody and Charlie and hell, even Sam, will go running if he needs help but… Dean hunches his shoulders, trying to avoid the knowledge that Cas won’t call him, will never call him, probably wants nothing to do with his pseudo-demonic ass and…

Easing the Impala around a curve, Dean forces himself to relax. He needs to stay calm. Anything else will give the Mark a finger hold, a way to drag him back in. He can’t… he can’t do that to Sam and Cas again. And he should probably find a way to apologize to Crowley too, if he ever sees him.

When they reach Green Mountain, it’s dark already, with heavy cloud cover a heavy fog covering the road in low lying areas. But, despite the freezing temperatures, it hasn’t started snowing yet. Thankfully. Digging graves in the snow sucks.

Green Mountain is in the Appalachians, barely alive but still holding onto their church, post office, and a small general store. Just what every tiny village needs.

“Where is everything going down?” Dean asks as they roll along the only street, barely pressing the gas. “There’s not much here.”

“The railroad depot across the river.” Sam frowns, glancing out his window at the fog. “Assuming we can find it.”

Dean shakes his head, finding a wider patch of road and turning around. “We’ll come back in the morning.” He swallows roughly-- he’s wasting Sam’s time, he should have just stayed at the Bunker while Sam and Cas took care of this.

Sam grunts beside him, still looking at what little is visible through the fog. “I want to take another look at the newspaper article anyway-- something about this doesn’t feel right now that we’re here.”

It’s late enough in the season-- they missed Thanksgiving again-- that the chances of anyone actually being in any of the hunting cabins dotted through the forest are slim. Dean picks a turn-off at random and follows it for miles, high up into the hills surrounding the town.

The cabin they find eventually reminds him of Rufus’s old cabin back in Wyoming-- solid log walls covered in plaster, chipped paint, and ancient appliances. This one is missing the supernatural protections, no sigils or warding carved into the plaster and no easy access weapons, but it’s similar enough to be comfortable, and doesn’t look like it’s been touched in months.

“Flip you for the bed?” Sam asks behind him, still carrying one of their bags.

Dean shakes his head. “Go ahead and take it. I’ll be fine in the chair.” Sam’s never slept well in chairs, this one looks particularly terrible, and he’s got months of shitty brother karma to work off.

“You know, we could have found a different place. One with two beds.” Sam kicks the bed frame experimentally, watching the covers for movement. “And running water.”

Dean shrugs. Running water means pipes and a better chance of someone showing up to check on the place, cops and gunshots and… “It’s a ghost, Sammy. We won't be here that long.”

Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his bag on the bed. “It’s Sam.” He wanders into the kitchen area-- a gas stove and some cabinets-- before sighing and starting to slap together a sandwich for dinner.

Dean watches him silently for a few seconds before slipping out the door and onto the abandoned porch. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be inside, hanging out with Sam, reading over the case, he just…

Every time he opens his mouth, all he can think about is the horseshit he spewed at Sam while Sam was trying to cure him. Lies about how he feels, the innocent lives he took, it’s all right _there_ , a stone choking him.

The stone is present with Cas too, but not as overwhelming. Fuck, Cas has already forgiven him, like Dean deserves it.

Puffing out his breath in the November chill, Dean pushes into the forest that surrounds them, collecting some firewood to supplement what is already at the cabin.

* * *

Castiel steps back, dropping his paintbrush onto the paper plate. “Gavin, shine the light over here please?”

The blacklight plays over the wall, the freshly added sigils glowing. Nodding, Castiel swipes a hand through his hair and turns away.

“That do it?” Charlie asks from the doorway, arms crossed. “Not that I know why this had to be done this weekend or anything.”

“You wanted my help to create the strongest wards we could,” Castiel says dryly. “I assumed there was some urgency.” His guilt over Amelia and Claire might act as a prod too, but there’s no reason to point that out. She knows.

Gavin swirls the paintbrush through the paint and frowns. “None of these look like the ones my gran taught me.”

“Your gran taught you witchcraft?” Castiel pushes a pen and paper towards him. Gavin is more forthcoming when he has something to doodle with, to the point there are sheets of paper and pencils throughout the house.

Gavin shrugs. “Not workings, no one would dare. Not with my other gran being a witch. Protection, she said. In case the witch came after her blood.” Sketching a quick swirl-- interlocking curves with spirals and other symbols at the points and center-- he pushes it towards Charlie and resumes doodling.

Castiel and Charlie share a look. Despite their best efforts, they’ve still not gotten Crowley here to meet with his son. They had stopped trying while searching for Dean, but perhaps now… “Did she teach you anything else?”

“Nah, was girls work, learned with the spinning and cooking while I was at the shop with Da or later, at my apprenticeship.”

“What does this do?” Charlie grabs a second sheet of paper, taking notes already, while Castiel steps into the kitchen. They’ve already lined the back door with salt and iron, but there has to be a way to make it stronger. Frowning, he adds goofer dust and cats’ eye shells to the shopping list on the fridge. If they ever have someone over, it will be eclectic decor, but Kevin will be safe.

“Cas, what do you think of this?” Charlie calls from the living room where she’s drawn Gavin’s new symbol behind the front door.

“It’s a trap, not prevention,” Gavin says. “And will need a twin across the room-- activate either, and the creature will be pulled to the other.”

Tilting his head, Castiel considers the location and nods. “I see no reason it wouldn’t work there. It would certainly buy time for a more effective way of ending the threat to be found.”

“Let’s do it then.” Charlie hands Gavin the pencil. “You and Cas get this done while I warm up some leftovers for dinner.”

* * *

The daily headache is already scratching behind his eyes when he wakes up, shifting uncomfortably in the broken down chair. Dean dry swallows the aspirin he finds in his bag and ignores the sharp burning of his arm where soft flannel rubs over the Mark just like he ignores Sam’s grumpy silence and the chill in the room. It’s Sunday, he thinks, so at least they’ll be able to investigate the train depot without interference.

The old percolator pot above the stove still works and he starts the coffee before surveying the food they brought with them. Sandwiches it is.

Sam eats his sandwich in the same cold, strained silence as last night, drains his coffee before getting ready to go. Dean picks at his, not hungry despite not eating anything last night.

The burn intensifies, the Mark demanding to be fed, demanding action, blood, death. The third will depend on the first two and he’s not sure how that’s going to work either.

Dean shouldn’t have come. Should have stayed at the Bunker, out of the way and away from people, should have convinced Sam and Cas to just let him rust away in a forgotten corner. There’s no coming back from what he’s done, and every moment of silence just condemns him further.

“Ready to go?” Sam breaks the silence, jerking on his coat and settling his gun at the small of his back.

Swallowing, Dean nods. His gun and knives are in the trunk, safely away from him. One day, maybe, he’ll be able to not think about how he nearly butchered his brother and best friend.

The drive back down to town is silent, broken only by the Impala nearly bottoming out on some of the gullies and scraping her underside.

“If we’re going to keep doing hunts in the mountains, we should get an SUV,” Sam says quietly. “She has trouble with these roads.”

Dean shudders, patting the Impala’s dash lightly. “She got us up there, didn’t she? We’ll be fine.” He ignores what Sam’s actually saying. Because it’s not concern about Baby that made Sam suggest it-- he wants away from Dean. Wants his own car, hunts, life. Replacing the Impala is just the beginning.

Sam pulls out his phone and fidgets. “I’m going to ask around at the store when we get into town. Can you poke around the train depot?”

Get as far away from him as possible and still be working the same case. “Yeah. Do we have everything we need for those poltergeist hoodoo bags in the trunk?”

Sam shrugs. “We restocked last spring, so--” he breaks off, probably trying not to say what they’re both already thinking. It was ghost central all spring-- but no poltergeists-- and then Dean fucked off to be a demon and pal around with Crowley for most of the last five months. “There should be plenty of goofer dust anyway, and that’s the hard one to get ahold of.”

“Awesome.” They lapse into silence again.

Dean parks near the general store-- now that they can see, the train depot is just across the river, and the bridge is right there-- and watches Sam make nice at the store before loading up his gear and getting started.

The outside of the depot is well kept, if worn and dingy. Nothing a fresh bucket of paint and some new shingles wouldn’t fix. The doors are locked, but he does find a window that’s been jimmied open, the latch bent so it won’t lock properly.

Frowning, Dean jumps, trying to see inside before giving it up as a lost cause and picking the lock on the door. Something’s not right here, and this _isn’t_ a ghost.

Maybe they’ll be lucky and it’s just the broken window and winter winds barreling off the mountains. Sam had mentioned something about this being weirdly peaceful for a ghost that catches their attention.

Dirt-smeared windows block the meager sunlight, leaving Dean to stumble around inside until he can find a light switch. Not that it does him much good, the bare bulb only illuminates the ten feet closest to the door. From what he can see, this is where the town keeps the seasonal equipment-- lawn mowers and a giant canvas thing that’s probably a tent; Christmas decorations from decades long gone-- it otherwise ignores. Probably why no one noticed when something nasty moved in.

Something clatters in the gloom at the other end of the building, startling Dean. “Who’s there?” he demands, snapping his flashlight on and shining it into the far corners.

The noise doesn’t come again.

Dean pushes his way deeper into the mess, following a barely clear path to the very back. Looking at the piles of junk, he shakes his head. It’s never _just_ the wind, but he can’t even identify what fell, let alone guess what caused it.

Hopefully Sam had better luck, because this has been completely useless.

* * *

Sam lurks in the back of the general store, listening to the old men gossip at the hardware counter while their wives are at some post-church meeting next door.

“You see anything new in the depot, Robert?”

The clerk shrugs, reaching over to pour himself another cup of coffee. “No more than I said last week, Mr. Sweeney. Maybe it was just the wind.”

It’s possible, Sam thinks, but unlikely.

“I’m old, Robert Whitson, not senile. You wouldn’t have said anything if you thought it was just the wind.”

The clerk-- the _mayor--_ grimaces around another sip of his coffee. “Alright, the ghost then. But things moving around in the old depot doesn’t mean a whole lot. I’m no spring chicken either.”

“Nancy said Karen said Bill had some things move on him too. Gloves he dropped while digging for the snow plow hookup were on the seat of the mower when he came back in to pick them up.”

The third man, who’d been silent until now, scoffs. “Bill’s always losing things. He’d lose his head if Karen didn’t attach it for him in the mornings.”

Whitson shrugs. “He doesn’t lose things like this. The tent moved, the gear for the snow plow… something’s in there. Bigger than a coon, and smarter than one too.”

Sam’s heard enough, and they’re moving onto football scores and their (great) grandkids anyway.

Grabbing a few odds and ends and wincing at the inflated prices, he hurriedly passes Whitson enough cash to cover it and heads back outside.

Dean’s walking back across the bridge already, deep frown clearly visible even from this far away. Dropping the bag into the backseat, Sam leans against the car and waits for Dean to catch up.

“Find anything?” Dean grunts out.

“It’s the talk of the town, but this isn’t like any ghost I’ve ever heard of-- what I found online made it seem like it was violent, but…” he trails off.

“But it’s not?” Dean nods, glancing back across the river. “Yeah. EMF’s no good, there’s still power to the building. Found a broken window lock though. It might be enough for the wind to get in, move some things around.” Sighing, he shrugs. “Whatever it is, it’s quiet.”

Sam sighs. So much for this being an open and shut. “What do you think?”

“It might not be a ghost,” Dean says slowly. “But there’s something in there. Wanna stick your head in?”

“It’s barely noon and we’re at a standstill, so I guess.”

Walking across the bridge, Dean points out the window with the broken latch-- half hidden by bushes, it’s the window Sam would choose if he was breaking into a building-- while Sam pulls out his phone and takes a few photos of the area, pretending to be a tourist as the wives come streaming out of the church, their chatter carrying clearly in the cold air.

A door slams on the depot, a thin figure taking off across the tracks.

Sam jerks into a run, giving chase, Dean right beside him. Whatever this is, it’s not definitely not a ghost, hurdling over bushes and ditches, just barely staying ahead of them. But they’re gaining, longer legs and habitually chasing after monsters finally coming in handy.

Dean gestures to the side and sprints away to cut their quarry off before they’re too deep in the woods.

The runner trips over something, stumbling forward to land on their hands and knees. They scrabble at their skin, tearing off chunks, shedding skin and clothes--

Dean tackles them mid-shift, dragging the shape shifter through the undergrowth.

Sam grabs his pistol from his back, standing over Dean and the shifter like some sort of twisted guardian. “Who are you?” he demands.

The shifter shudders under Dean, olive skin rolling over their body like a wave, followed by shoulder length black hair. “Kathryn,” she mutters. “Get off me.”

Dean glances up to Sam, asking for the judgement call. Nice to know that he’s no more sure about this than Sam is. Shrugging, Sam nods.

Pushing himself up, Dean takes a few steps, rubbing his hands roughly on a bush to wipe off the slime.

“Okay, Kathryn, want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“What’s it look like?” she sits up, crossing her arms, shivering-- she materialized clothes, but not a coat. “I’m trying to get away from you.” She glares up at him, trying to hide her shivers.

It’s not _that_ cold, upper-thirties probably. If she’s cold this quick, she’d been cold before. Like she’d been living in an unheated building. Frowning, Sam tucks his gun away, ignoring Dean’s protest, and strips off his jacket, tossing it to her. “Put that on. We’re not having this conversation while you’re trying to freeze to death.”

“Fuck off, I don’t need to your charity.”

“Put the damn coat on,” Dean growls. His hand comes up to briefly close over the Mark before it drops. “Why are you living in a train depot?”

“Why does anyone live in them?” Kathryn ignores Sam, focusing on Dean, glancing at his arm. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Sam snorts. “You’re, what, sixteen? And a shape shifter? I’m guessing it’s not because you like the cold. Pretty good cover though, making the town think it was a ghost.”

“I wasn’t hurting anyone!” She bursts out. “I was trying to be helpful!”

“We know,” Sam says gently. “This would be a different conversation if someone had gotten hurt.”

Biting her lip, she hunches deeper into his jacket.

“Parents kick you out?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Queer or because of the shifter thing?”

“Yes? Both, neither. It’s complicated.”

Sam hmms. “We’re not going to get this figured out here. Let’s go back to the cabin, talk this out.”

“Where you can cut me up and leave me for the wolves? No thanks.”

“Wolves?” Dean asks incredulously. “Not to be a nerd or anything, but we’re in the wrong part of the country for that.”

Sam snorts. “In that case, we can head into a bigger town. One with a diner.”

On cue, Kathryn’s stomach growls, loud enough they can all hear it. “That’d probably be okay.” Pushing herself to her feet, she drops Sam’s jacket on the ground before stretching. Her features lose definition, melting into an unformed mass that she pulls free and flings to the ground.

It takes her a while to shift entirely, but when she finishes, Kathryn’s teenage form has been replaced by middle aged white woman, complete with short bleach blonde hair.

“You didn’t need to do that--” Sam starts.

“Teenager with two sketchy looking guys in their thirties?” She snorts. “Yeah, I did.”

“Is that a thing we need to worry about?” Dean asks, snatching up the jacket and throwing it at her.

“I have no idea. I saw her once, while we were in the city. She was so pretty that I had to become her.”

Dean shudders and glares. “Don’t you have like, a link into their brain to download their personality?”

“What? No. _Gross_. If all I want is their appearance, I can recreate it. The rest of it-- the memories or whatever-- that takes practice and isn’t really worth the effort.”

“Great,” Dean throws up his hands. “Let’s get out of Dodge and we can discuss the finer points of monster-hood over a cup of coffee.”

“Dean,” Sam chides. “She’s not done anything.”

“Yet,” Dean mutters, dodging Sam’s glare. “Whatever, let’s get going.”

They follow him back, silently. They’re not that far into the forest, barely far enough to hide them from anyone watching from town.

Dean jerks to a stop as they break free of the cover, shaking his head and digging for the keys. “We weren’t subtle. Sam, grab the car and we’ll meet you down the road a bit.”

Sam hesitates at the idea of leaving them alone together. “I’ll stay here, you grab it. The mayor will recognize me-- he runs the store.”

Dean nods, tossing the keys a couple of times and casually strolling back across the bridge.

“So what are you actually going to do with me?” Kathryn asks.

“You’ve not hurt anyone.” Sam shrugs. “So I thought we’d feed you and give you a ride to the city. It’ll be easier to get by there. There’s too much shit out there that’s actually hurting folks to bother with creatures that are just living their lives.”

“I don’t buy the take her into town and feed her line, by the way. Not from two hunters.” She glances around, looking after Dean. “Somehow I don’t think your… brother… feels the same way anyway.”

“Dean had a rough few months and he’s just getting back to baseline.”

“That’s not reassuring.” She pauses for a moment. “Wait… Sam and Dean? _Winchester_?” Paling, she steps back, halfway back into the forest already. “Shit. Wait, I thought Dean was possessed by a demon.”

“Like I said, we’re not going to hurt you,” Sam says dryly. “He’s not, by the way. In case that wasn’t clear.”

Kathryn huffs, braving the exposed road again. “Like I’m afraid of Dean Winchester because he’s a _demon_.”

He stares at her, trying to get a read on what’s going through her head. She’s afraid, but not, and sarcastic as hell… he has no idea. If Dean would talk to her, they’d like each other. Instead, the best thing they do for her is get her someplace she won’t be noticed.


	39. Chapter 39

Castiel steps back to get a good look at the wall, double checking all the protections they’ve painted in place over the past several days are solid. This little duplex is as well protected as he and Charlie can make it-- sigils and symbols painted on wall, salt and iron at every window and door-- but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

Honestly, he’s not sure it will ever feel like enough. The angels are busy, Abaddon is dead, and Crowley has regained the throne, yes, however…

Dean as a Knight was a _revolution_.

Shuddering, Castiel steps away from the wall and nods at Charlie. “You’ll be vulnerable against witches and other humans, but nothing has ever been able keep them out.”

“Witches I can handle. It’s the demons and angels that get me worried.”

“ _We_ can handle,” Kevin says from the kitchen doorway. “I’m not completely helpless.”

“No, but you wanted as calm of an undergrad as we could grant. This is me, making that happen,” Charlie says sharply before running a hand down her face. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“I can stay longer, if you want to take a few days to yourself. Sam and Dean are on their own hunt and I have something I want to investigate,” Castiel offers. “I can start here as easily as anywhere else.”

“We don’t need babysitters,” Kevin says bitterly. “Finals are in two weeks-- I’m not going to be doing anything more exciting than studying and raids in WoW.”

“We should on our own as bachelors of the world,” Gavin points out. “I’ve been rated able seaman for three years. I had my sweetheart-- we were going to get married as soon as I could afford to post the banns.” He falls silent with a sad, wry smile. “Of course, I expect she married someone else.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow and looks at Charlie. “Go. There’s a werewolf in Washington state if you wish to hunt, or I’m sure you have your own list.”

Charlie looks around in shock before shaking her head. “If you think I’m going _hunting_ when I’ve got a girlfriend and a few days freedom? C’mon guys, I know swords are sexier than a bottle of wine, but Ro’s got hella classy tastes.” She darts back to her room.

“Maybe I should stay,” Castiel says doubtfully, looking from Gavin to Kevin and back again.

“Leave, Cas,” Kevin says emphatically. “I solemnly swear to be _boring_.”

Frowning, Castiel nods and heads out to his car.

The drive back to the Kansas-Missouri state line is long, the already boring landscape made flatter and duller with the grays and browns of early winter. Driving is just so… slow. Confining.

“Hello, brother.”

Castiel nearly jerks the car off the road. “Gadreel.” Risking a glance over at his new passenger, he squints briefly before shaking his head. “I see why Dean hated that so much.” Flipping the turn signal on, he turns into the empty parking lot of a hardware store along the highway. “What do you want?”

“You must return to Heaven, brother. X-- Metatron-- grows more tyrannical every day. You can stop him.” Gadreel stares straight ahead, absorbed in the cut pine trees waiting purchase.

“That’s the same choice he gave me,” Castiel points out bitterly. “Except with me as the hero.”

“And we want it to be real.” Gadreel’s face does something that might be a smirk. “Your rebellion against Raphael, it was inspiration for many.”

“My _failed_ rebellion against Raphael. What followed was even worse. Metatron--”

“Metatron engineered the Fall,” Gadreel cuts him off. “For no other reason, we cannot allow him to continue running Heaven. The rest of it,” he shrugs. “We’ve had bad leaders before.”

“Yes. Me.” Castiel sighs. “How full is the veil? I assume he still isn’t interested in cleaning up his mess.”

“A few angels are sneaking reapers and their cargoes in through the back ways. It’s helping, but I’m sure you’ve already noticed the problems.” Gadreel fidgets in the passenger seat. “Humanity as a whole is going to notice soon.”

“Some already have.” For some reason, Castiel thinks of the odd hunt Dean had been on when he was killed-- the nearby battlefield and deaths, the deformed lead ball in Dean’s chest that killed him. “How did he manage to keep out the reapers? Nothing should keep them from their duties.”

“ _I don’t know_ , Castiel. Metatron is rewriting things, forcing his will upon the very structure of Heaven. The rebellion is barely holding ground, hiding in the oldest heavens. We need help. _Your_ help.”

It wouldn’t be easy, he’d have to reabsorb his grace, and… the thought grinds to a halt. As much as Gadreel’s plea moves him, as much as he wants to tear Metatron from Heaven… he has other duties. “I cut out my grace and I have responsibilities here. I’m of no use in a rebellion.”

“Castiel, if you don’t help us--”

“Really, brother? You would threaten me?” Castiel asks sharply. “After what you did to Sam Winchester? You lied to obtain his consent and spent weeks failing to heal him. I’m increasingly certain you meddled in things that should not be meddled with long before Metatron called you to his side. Now you’re having a crisis of conscience--”

Gadreel disappears.

Castiel takes several minutes to regain his temper before jerking the car back into drive. Gadreel finding him has removed an item from his list, but there are still things he needs to do.

* * *

Dean glances in the rear view mirror, watching the teenage shifter-- not that she looks like a teenager right now-- doze lightly against the window. Baby’s speed ticks a bit higher, his foot pressing down harder on the gas, eager to get another predator out of his territory.

_No_. She’s not a threat, he’s not a predator, and the Mark is trying to take control again.

“Wanna ease up there, Earnhardt?” Sam asks dryly. “We’re not running moonshine and this isn’t a race.”

Dean forces out a laugh. “Wouldn’t it be fun though? Running Baby through these mountains, faster than the cops could catch us?”

“Right up until we flip and die. Or the cops ambush us.”

“Nothing as mundane as a car crash is gonna kill us,” Dean points out. “After all this shit? We’re due for something epic.” Banter is easy, banter doesn’t require him to fight his instincts every step of the way.

“I’m pretty sure a giant fireball into a mountain is epic.” Sam thinks for a moment before waggling his hand. “Maybe.”

“You didn’t survive Lucifer to die in a car crash.” There’s more that belongs there-- they’ve both survived worse things than just Lucifer-- but he’s not sure he actually survived Abaddon the second time. He rubs the Mark roughly through his jacket, almost enjoying the spark of burn-pain that follows.

Sam glances behind him, at Kathryn, before asking quietly, “It bothering you more today?”

“It hurts. Doesn’t like that there’s another monster in the car.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Pretty sure it wouldn’t mind a bit if I flipped us and killed us all,” he says lightly, trying to hide just how much the Mark is pushing. He’d survive-- one way or the other-- and the Mark would let him enjoy the resulting destruction, to hell with any passengers.

He straightens the car back out, hopefully before Sam notices they were drifting, and turns the radio up.

The plan had been to take Kathryn to Charlotte, let her make her own way from there, but she’d thrown enough of a fuss they’re skipping the coast altogether. Knoxville is closer-- barely two hours-- and on the way back to the Bunker, but it feels _wrong_.

Not that much feels right anymore.

Kathryn snorts in her sleep, half waking up before settling back down.

She’s not the problem, Dean’s certain of that. He is. The demon inside him sees her as a predator, wants her out of his territory, but the demon doesn’t have the upper hand anymore. Will _never_ have the upper hand again, if he can do anything about it.

There has to be a way to get this douchey thing off his arm.

Sam’s phone rings on the outskirts of the city, forcing Dean to turn down the music. “Hey, Charlie.” Dean can barely hear the tinny sound of Charlie’s voice over the road noise, but from the way Sam pales, something has gone wrong. “Slow down. What?” Urgently tapping the dash, Sam points towards the signs for downtown. “Dean, find the bus station, we’ve got a problem. Charlie, we’ve got a passenger to drop off, then we’ll be on the way. Send me what you know, and we’ll get there as soon as we can.”

“What’s going on?” Dean asks urgently.

Kathryn comes drowsily awake in the backseat. “Are we there?”

“There’s an emergency,” Sam says, pulling open the glove compartment and pulling out the wad of cash they keep there. “We’re gonna drop you off at the bus station, and you can get to wherever you want from there.”

“That’s it?” Kathryn demands. “There’s an emergency, have a nice life?”

“It’s better than freezing to death while pretending to be a ghost,” Dean snaps. “What did you expect was going to happen?”

Kathryn snaps her mouth closed, glaring at him in the rear view mirror. “Sorry,” she mutters after a few seconds. “You’re right.”

Sam splays the cash out on the seat-- a few hundred, not much, but should be enough for her to get by on until she can get a job. Dean nods, watching the signs to get them downtown. It’s safer if they don’t know where she is anyway. Unlike him, she’s not a threat. The less he knows, the less temptation there will be to hunt her down, put a silver knife in her heart just on principle.

Dean holds his tongue, refusing to ask questions until Kathryn’s out of the car and their lives. She already knows too much.

“Tell me,” he demands as soon as the doors of the building close behind her. “What’s going on?”

“Kevin’s missing.”

Dean stares at him for a long moment before peeling out of the parking lot.

* * *

Sam drops Dean off at the St. Louis Union Station-- at Dean’s insistence-- before bypassing their normal back road routes through Missouri in favor of the interstate. He rushes it, risking highway patrol in his urgency to reach Columbia before Charlie blames herself too much

The address she gives him is on the south side of town, far enough from campus that walking would suck, but there’s a bus stop at the end of the road. It’s obviously student housing-- generic duplexes fill the street, driveways and streets lined with older model cars, with questionable yard and house upkeep-- but not it’s the luxury apartments a couple blocks away either.

Gavin opens the door before Sam has a chance to knock, silently pushing past him and walking away. Sam stares after him for a moment, shakes his head, and lets himself inside.

“Sam! Good,” Charlie greets him as soon as the door closes behind him. “I didn’t-- you weren’t in the middle of a case or anything, were you?”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “We’d just finished one, were on our way back to the Bunker.”

“Dean too?” Charlie freezes, her eyes darting to the door behind him. “Don’t get me wrong, I miss him, but--”

“Left him in St. Louis. He doesn’t want to risk knowing where you are.” He runs his fingers through his hair, glancing around the room. There’s some signs of a struggle, but most of it has already been cleaned up. “What happened? You were here to protect Kevin.”

“I… may have gotten sick of being here all the time, so--” Charlie shrugs, fingers tightening on the back of the dining room chair. “Kevin and Gavin were being brats about having a babysitter. It was just supposed to be an overnight thing-- take my lady friend down to the wineries, you know, stereotypical romance shit-- but Ro never showed.”

Sam nods, pushing Charlie to actually sit in the chair she’s gripping so tightly, pulling out the one next to it. “And then what?”

“I went ahead and spent the night-- I’d already had a bottle of wine by the time I figured out she wasn’t coming-- and… well, you know. Drinking and angry driving don’t mix.”

“Tell that to Dean,” Sam mutters. “So you got back here this morning and…”

“Gavin was pinned against the wall-- one of the traps we set up last week-- fuming mad, the house was a wreck, and Kevin was gone.” Charlie bites her lip. “It’s never been a problem before, I’ve done day trips to meet with Cas or other hunters. I know I never should have--”

“It wasn’t your fault, Charlie.” Sam glances around, at the wards carved and painted into the walls. “What we need to do now is figure out who took him and why.”

Charlie closes her eyes for a moment before nodding firmly. “Right. I don’t have security cameras set up-- seemed stupid when most of the things coming after us should jack with the footage-- but the traffic cameras should have… something. Probably. I’ll find it.”

Sam nods, pushing himself to his feet. “You do that. I’m going to take a look around, see if I can find anything that way.” He types out a quick update to Dean before slipping his phone back in his pocket and starting to search the house.

The search grows more desperate over the next several hours. Charlie comes up with nothing-- there’s dozens of cars coming and going between their target times-- and Sam doesn’t find anything either. It’s an dead end.

Kevin is definitely gone, he definitely didn’t leave under his own power, and… that’s all they have.

Slumping at the table again, Sam shakes his head. “I have no clue. This is insane.”

“I told Kev he should let me microchip him. I’d be able to find him then.”

“I don’t… who the hell would take him and not leave a trace?”

“Not demons or angels, we’re very specifically warded against them. Most of the corporeal monsters would have either been caught in the trap or left traces… What’s left?”

“Ghosts or witches?” Sam frowns.

“Not ghosts-- there’s a line of salt at every entrance.”

Sam stares at her. “How much did you guys _do_?”

She ticks off on her fingers. “We’ve had four months. Scottish, thanks to Gavin; Enochian, thanks to Cas; general European; something maybe Egyptian?” Charlie shrugs. “You knew I was putting a lot of work into this. This place should be as secure as we can get it. We wanted out of the Bunker, not to be exposed.”

“I really want to figure out how you did these, but we’ve got a more pressing issue at hand. You’re going to explain it all to me eventually.” Blinking, he takes a drink of the cold coffee at his elbow-- when did that appear?-- and shakes his head. “Witch then. Probably. I don’t know what else you would have missed.”

“Does that get us any closer to finding the princess?” Charlie asks hopelessly.

“No.” Sam sighs.

* * *

Union Station is crawling with cameras and cops, tourists and holiday shoppers. Dean lasts for about an hour, dodging between groups, trying to avoid anyone noticing him-- nearly ten years later, he’s _still_ uneasy about showing his face in Missouri, especially in St. Louis-- before he hops onto one of commuter trains and gets out of there.

He spends two days cooling his heels in the suburbs, hustling pool to get enough money for a room at night-- early December isn’t punishingly cold, but as long as he has enough skill to avoid it, he’d rather not-- without a peep out of Sam or Charlie. On the third day, he steals a car and goes back to the Bunker. If they don’t want to keep him in the loop, he’ll find his own thing to do.

The full moon is in two weeks, surely between now and then, he can find some werewolves to hunt. Anything to keep him from gnawing off his own arm.

What was it Crowley said? Death is his drug now, more than booze or porn. Compelled to kill the same way Sam was compelled to drink demon blood. It’s disgusting, against everything he stands for, but… as much as Crowley is full of shit sometimes, somehow Dean doesn’t think he was lying about this.

Something feels off when Dean gets to the Bunker. He can’t put his finger on it, not immediately, but being empty for a week shouldn’t feel this strange.

He draws his gun on a sheet of paper, slowly floating to the ground from one of the library tables, before he realizes what it is. The cream letterhead stands out against the wood floors, especially in the twilight of the library.

Tipping the sheet towards the light, Dean reads it, grits his teeth, and reads it again. He forces himself to take a deep breath-- there’s nothing to kill here, the interlopers long gone-- before heading towards his room.

He doesn’t care what the Stynes took, or how they got in. He is going to get it back.

* * *

Crowley stares at the former angel across from him. “You’re proposing _what_?” he hisses, mindful of the crowded wine bar around them. “Are you insane?”

“Far from it,” Cas states calmly. “You must be aware that a human cannot hold a throne, it’s impossible.”

“Dean doesn’t seem to be having any trouble so far.” Crowley shrugs. “Even if what you’re proposing was reasonable, I fail to see what possible attraction it has for me.”

“You don’t see the attraction in being the power behind the throne? Where your schemes can be appreciated instead of--” Feathers breaks off, tilts his head. “ _Do_ any of your demons understand what is going on?”

Crowley snorts, takes a sip of his wine. It’s not the best he’s ever tasted, and certainly isn’t his preferred scotch, but it’s a damn sight better than the swill he was drinking with Squirrel. He can’t stop the shudder that runs down his spine at the idea of drinking bottom shelf _anything_ ever again.

“No,” Crowley admits. “They have no idea. Too stupid to even begin to have an understanding of the intricacies required.” Cas doesn’t understand either, of course, but he comes a lot closer than even the brightest of demons. And his understanding lacks experience in Hell, not failure to comprehend.

Cas takes a sip of his own wine, face going slightly flat at the taste. “Tell me the current structure.”

“Dean is the most active power in centuries. The entire bloody place has reformed itself to his will, except for scars left on the landscape. Some will heal, some will fester and rot.”

“New thrones?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Not unless they can fly. Abaddon’s Gash could be a source of power, but no one can reach it.”

“No one but you.”

“I might have a vested interest in controlling access, yes.”

Cas leans back against the booth, thinking. Crowley lets him, there’s nothing to be done about the first new throne since John the Baptist was still walking around topside. He has plans already, and plans for his plans.

“Why did you call me, Halo? You could have gotten most of this information from any demon stupid enough to answer a summons.”

Cas shrugs. “Because if Dean becomes a demon again, he’ll know you helped us.”

“I did no such thing. Juliet wasn’t hunting him, for god’s sake. She was watching, in case the cavalry was needed.”

“Is that supposed to be your defense?” Cas takes a skeptical sip of his wine before shrugging.

“I don’t like this new you,” Crowley waves his hand. “It’s very _smug_.”

“Tell me what you know about the Knights and how they came to be.” Castiel’s eyes are oddly bright in the low light of the bar.

“Aren’t you keen.” Pausing for a moment, Crowley narrows his eyes before standing. “We’re going to need more wine for that discussion.” Crossing to the bar, he orders another bottle to their table before stepping out the back. Something is off, something subtle.

Playing on a hunch, he pulls his phone from his pocket and calls Cas.

“Crowley?” He sound more curious than annoyed, and more importantly, he’s someplace else, a car probably. “I wouldn’t expect you to call me.”

“You have a doppelganger, Feathers. And you didn’t think to tell me. I’m hurt, really.”

The sound on the other end changes, the radio flipping off. “There’s someone… pretending to be me? With you?”

“Indeed. And whatever they are, they’re good.”

“But you’re better.”

“Feathers, I’m _Crowley_.” Hanging up, Crowley drops the phone back into his pocket before going back inside. His mind races, trying to figure out who would have this sort of temerity.

‘Cas’ is still where he left him, slowly slipping on his glass of wine-- no wince in sight now-- and watching the room. Whoever it is, they’re definitely used to dealing with demons.

Sliding into the booth across from the impostor, Crowley keeps his face impassive. “Apologies, there are things that still need my attention.”

The impostor waves it away before pushing another glass of wine towards him. Too late, Crowley regrets the rich Cabernet they’ve chosen. The number of intoxicants that can affect demons might be small, but any of them could put him out of commission for anywhere from minutes to hours, and all of them hide quite well in rich wine. “You do still have a kingdom to run.”

Crowley inclines his head majestically, hurriedly organizing what he’s comfortable telling an unknown enemy about the Knights. Much of it is, if not general knowledge, could be verified in short order. But there are other things, secrets hidden long ago by the Knights themselves that could be dangerous, both to the holder and any experimenters.

Sharing what he decides is prudent, or unavoidable, still takes several hours. There’s no way to avoid drinking the wine, to avoid the blood coating his tongue with every sip, soaking into him…

The illusion slips, for just a second, dark hair lengthening into shoulder length curls and the tap of a ring against a wine glass. Crowley stumbles across what he was going to say.

A slow grin spreads across Meg’s mostly hidden face before she nods. “Thanks for the info, your highness. I’ll be sure to use it well.” Standing, she taps a nail on the table before sliding into the crowd that surrounds them.

* * *

Kevin’s head is pounding when he wakes up. He keeps his eyes closed-- he doesn’t remember what happened, but that is enough for him to keep quiet until he figures out the rest.

Sleepily stretching, Kevin slits his eyes open to look around the room. He’s lying on a stiff couch, legs stretched out over the end so he fits. There’s a bed not too far away, and a desk, but the rest of the room is lost to near darkness. He can see some other shapes further away-- a wing back chair maybe, and a table?-- but between the heavy curtains on the window and the quickly fading sunset, he can’t see details.

He does know that he’s never seen this room in his life, and it’s certainly not a dorm room where he crashed when he got drunk at a frat party. But if it’s a prison, it’s also the best damn appointed prison he’s ever seen.

Pounding head, but not in a bruised sort of way: drugs or magic, not head trauma. Good. The rest of him feels stiff and slightly bruised too, but he should be able to run if he gets a chance. He doesn’t feel anything on his wrists: they want his willing cooperation. He can work with this.

The overhead light flips on, forcing him to shut his eyes against the glare.

“There’s a pet,” the woman says, her accent curling around the words, a flash of red hair appearing when Kevin risks opening his eyes again. She slides her hand into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, almost petting him. “Time to wake up, my dear. We need to have a wee chat.”

“Whatever you want, the answer is no,” Kevin says, jerking away from her and sitting up. “I don’t work with kidnappers.”

“Details.” She waves a hand expansively, backing away and gesturing toward the other end of the room. “Have a cup of tea, you must be thirsty.”

Now that she’s said something, Kevin’s stomach protests, but he ignores it. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“I don’t stand much for manners, but that is unacceptable,” she says harshly, anger nearly obliterating the pleasantness of her accent. It turns harsh and rough, slipping away from pure Scottish to something else. “Have a cup of tea, Kevin, while we discuss what happens now.”

There goes any hope he had of this being a misunderstanding.

Swallowing tightly, Kevin follows her across the room, taking the chair she points to imperiously. She returns to the arch politeness from before, pouring out the tea and offering him a cake.

Once they’re settled, she leans back in her chair and watches him. “Tell me, Kevin, have you ever heard of the great witch Nadya?”

Kevin shrugs. He’s read dozens of files regarding witches, great and small, over the past year, ranging from terrifying monsters who destroyed entire towns to young people captured after a minor divination. A single name, without context, could be any of them.

“Nadya was a great witch, the last of them. Capable of decoding any cipher, stealing the secrets, and then recreating any spell.”

“Okay…”

“A power such as her could never be allowed to flourish in the world. So men captured her, tortured her, locked away all of her notes, all of her work, and then executed her.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

“The _Men of Letters_ captured, tortured, and killed her, like they did to so many of the other powerful witches, trying to break the Grand Coven.”

Kevin swallows.

“Now, the Grand Coven can go hang,” the witch says harshly. “But Nadya’s papers and works… those I want. And you’re going to get them for me.”

“I mean, I don’t even know who she was, let alone if I can get a bunch of old papers for you. I shouldn’t even be near the Bunker-- if Sam or Dean spot me, they’ll know something’s wrong, and that’s even if we can get me near it and…”

“Shut up,” she orders. “Return here, to me, with Nadya’s Codex, or I will feed you to demons.” She pauses for a moment before muttering something. A thick feeling settles over Kevin, like he’s swimming through syrup, lasting a couple seconds before dissipating. “You will tell no one about this either. By word, or script, or deed.”

Well shit. Assuming she just cast a spell on him-- and he sees no reason to believe she hasn’t-- she just neatly tied up all his options.

* * *

“You’re sure it was the Stynes?” Sam asks stupidly, his voice echoing against the ammo box sitting on the table.

Dean frowns, spins the phone back around so the speaker is facing him, before picking up his pistol and starting to reassemble it. “They left a freakin’ _note_ , Sam. Who else would it have been?”

“I don’t know, Dean. Crowley? It’s the sort of shit he would do.”

It’s really not, but Sam has never understood the hows and whys of Crowley. “I’m going to go with the _humans_ who signed their names, not the demon who, for all we know, is cleaning up Hell.”

Dean can hear Sam rolling his eyes, even over the phone. “I’m just saying, we could really use your help in tracking down Kevin.”

“To do what? Hunt him down, kill his captors? Pray I don’t spin out of control again?” Dean blows out a breath. “It’s enough of a risk of me going after the Stynes-- they’re jerks, but haven’t hurt anyone, we think.”

Dean waits, snapping the last pieces of his pistol together, before setting it aside and grabbing the knife sharpening kit. All the self-help books in the world, new age guru shit, say he’s setting himself up for failure. If he’s afraid of killing again, having implements of death around will just make sure he does, a self-fulfilling prophecy. But he’s still got to be able to do his job, so weapon maintenance it is.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s true,” Sam says pensively. “I did some digging and… I don’t know. They just kinda appeared out of nowhere, just after German unification.”

“The Cold War? That’s--”

“The first one, in the 1870s. Not the collapse of the Berlin Wall. Not a lot has been digitized,” Sam says thoughtfully. “But I think there’s links from these guys to a lot of the bullshit leading up to the World Wars and everything else. They trade in blood, Dean, but somehow their hands are always clean.”

“So I’ll watch my back. I just want to chat with them about the advisability of breaking into the Bunker.”

“Just… be careful,” Sam says finally. “I don’t like this, and I really don’t like you not having back up.”

“I’ll be fine, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say.” Reaching over with an oil covered finger, Dean ends the call before Sam can give him even more second thoughts.

There’s a reason he doesn’t spend much time down south. The swamps and bayous give him the creeps, there’s a (fake) witch doctor every fifteen feet… even their monsters are weird. And the Stynes are in the middle of it, holed up in their decaying old mansion on the outskirts of Shreveport. Or the half dozen other centers and warehouses and whatever-the-fuck-elses Dean’s found linked to the family.

Chasing after them is probably the stupidest damn plan he’s ever had. But what the hell else is he going to do? He can’t help with Kevin, can’t even know where Kev and Charlie and Gavin have set up their base and…

He really wants to kill something.

Hunt someone down, tie them up, and the details don’t really matter as long as it’s a vampire or something.

But he can’t do that. Even ignoring the burning rot that’s colonized his arm, the poison threading out from the fucking Mark, he doesn’t-- can’t-- trust that he won’t fuck it up, kill the vampire who’s been surviving off rats or cows, the werewolf carrying silver so she never ever going to survive eating a human heart.

Groaning, Dean focuses on the machete’s edge, straightening out where it’s rolled over when impacting bone.

He can’t, actually, go after the Stynes. Not like this. He’ll fuck it up, kill a bunch of innocents, won’t kill the folks who actually need killing…

“Shit,” he breathes out. Pulling his phone over, he scrolls through his contacts-- ignoring the oily fingerprints-- and hits call.

“Not a good time, Squirrel.” Crowley sounds breathless, in the ‘currently getting fucked’ way. And the bolt of jealousy is unreal.

“Make time,” Dean grinds out. “I--”

“One hour,” Crowley snaps. “I’ll find you.” The call drops, the screen flashing before going dark.

Cas’s phone just rings and rings, never going to voicemail, just… ringing forever. Another person avoiding him. Once or twice, and Cas is just out of reach of his phone. But the third, fourth, _fifth_ times? Cas is avoiding him.

What did he expect? Someone to actually give a shit? He chuckles darkly, finishing the last of the knives and cleaning up the mess, folding up the drop cloth. Ruined things with Crowley, Cas ran at the earliest opportunity, and Sam just wants him safely locked away.

Whatever.

Scrabbling at the door, like dog claws, startles him out of his moping. He can’t see anything through the peephole, but he wouldn’t, would he? Hellhounds, black dogs, they’re all the same invisible mess aiming for his throat. Leaving the weapons where they are, he slowly unlocks the door, listening to the dog scratch and paw, pretending the noise isn’t at shoulder height or higher.

The dog shoulders the door open as soon as he cracks it. Dean can hear it sniffing at the salt line, watches the cheap carpet get torn up with sharp claws. Then it… huffs and makes a noise like it just laid down.

“Juliet?” Dean asks cautiously. He can hear her, so she’s not hunting him, but she’s almost never away from Crowley, so that…

She barks once, from near the floor, loud enough that his ears ring.

She’s always been way more fond of him than he is of her, but he knows she’s not here to kill him. Not yet anyway. Sighing, he breaks the salt line to let her in. “What do you want? Shouldn’t you be helping Crowley?”

She doesn’t respond beyond jumping onto the bed and settling down.

Frowning, Dean fixes the salt line and goes back to the desk, resuming his packing up. Or trying to. This is normally as easy as anything else, part of how he comes down after a long hunt-- or, recently, how he keeps himself from throwing his phone into the wall and disappearing again-- and he can’t relax. The knives don’t lie right, the guns keep getting tangled together, the drop cloth won’t fold small enough…

Wadding up an old t-shirt, he throws it against the wall in frustration.

“Scoot over,” he orders Juliet, snagging the remote and flipping on the TV.

Nurse Love is locked in a janitor’s closet with Nurse Taggert, the tension they’ve been building towards all season finally coming to a head, when Crowley shows up in the far corner, staggering slightly.

He looks like shit, bruising on his cheek and what looks like scratch marks above his collar.

“Holy crap, dude, what the hell?” Dean jerks upright, hurrying over to wrap an arm around Crowley and directing him to the bed. “Is that _blood_?”

“What the hell, indeed,” Crowley says dryly. “As I said in our call, I was preoccupied at the time.”

Dean stares at him for a moment before shaking his head and grabbing the first aid kit. “Please tell me the other guy looks worse.”

Crowley groans, leaning back against the headboard. Unerringly, his hand finds the area of air that Dean thinks corresponds with Juliet’s head. He pets her for a long moment, ignoring Dean’s question.

Dean lets him, pushing him forward to strip the torn suit jacket and tie off with uncomfortable familiarity. Long bloody marks, five or six inches long, rake along his ribs, but somehow never go deeper. “Was this done with a fucking whip?” Dean demands. Looking closer, he finds something like bark embedded in the edges. “I’m killing them, whoever it was.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s already done.” Crowley jerks away from Dean’s questing hands. “I did survive Hell for several millennia without you.”

“And you hated it, even when you were having the time of your life scheming away,” Dean shoots back, taking a moment to double check the wound. It’s stopped bleeding at least, and looks like it’s knitting together in front of his eyes. Fine, Crowley is probably going to live and doesn’t even need his help.

“I expected you to be playing house again with Feathers,” Crowley says, looking around the motel room. There’s an old bloodstain on the floor, water stains on the ceiling. The desk has one leg that’s shorter than the others.

Dean wouldn’t say he chose this motel to punish himself, but the thought isn’t very far away.

“Cas is…” Dean huffs, pushes away from the bed. “He’s busy.”

Crowley watches him with too knowing eyes, but Dean ignores him. It really is the best way to deal with Crowley.

“I see Juliet made it here without any problems.”

“A few minutes after I called. You should have kept her with you-- I know she’s good at tearing out throats.”

“Yes, almost as good as you as I recall. However, in this particular instance… she couldn’t help and would only get hurt if she tried.”

“So you sent her to me.”

“I told her to find you or Feathers. She chose you.”

Which means she has both their scents, the only thing keeping her from killing him and Cas both is her training and Crowley’s good will. Dean swallows, glancing at the empty space under Crowley’s hand. “Let me get you a clean shirt.”

Crossing the room to where his open duffel sits on top of the fridge, he drags out a t-shirt and flannel, tossing them at Crowley’s face. “Here. I don’t think my dress shirts are going to fit.”

“So you’ll put me in a holey stretched out disaster?” Crowley raises an eyebrow, waiting for… something. Dean has no idea what. “What did you want when you called me? I betrayed you, made you a demon, handed you back to your brother and angel… You clearly want something. What?”

Dean stares at him, clenching his jaw. The Mark jumps and starts bleeding, warm liquid trickling down his arm. “Fuck it, never mind. You’ve got better shit to do.” He slams into the bathroom, hoping Crowley will take the fucking hint, leave, and take his damn dog with him.

The tap can’t even manage hot water, let alone scalding, but cold will work just as well. Stripping off his flannel, and then the henley under it, he shoves his arm under the freezing water, leaving bloody handprints on the tap and counter. He watches the mirror instead of his arm, his control over the monster already tenuous.

He can’t ignore the Mark but acknowledging it makes it stronger, so he walks a fine line between accepting its existence (accepting that he became a demon after all, despite everything) and acknowledging anything about it.

Looking at it today will just make holding onto his humanity harder. He already has given up _not_ going after the Stynes. They’re a convenient target, nearby and deserving, and…

Jerking his eyes back up, he focuses on the mirror, counting the flowers in the wallpaper behind him.

His hand goes numb before the Mark does, there’s over two hundred flowers that he can see behind him, and Crowley stands in the doorway, still ragged, but in much better shape than he was when he arrived.

“Why did you call me, Squirrel?”

“Forget about it.” Twisting the tap off, Dean shakes his head. “How’s Hell?”

“Hellish. A few of the oldest demons are restless in their prisons. The rest are morons.”

“Sound like a good time. They gonna be a problem?”

“Abaddon was the only one who’s prison wasn’t connected to Lucifer’s cage. As long as it’s intact, there isn’t much trouble they can cause.”

“Good,” Dean says shortly. The last thing they need right now is to have to deal with another superpowered demon. He’s pretty certain that won’t end well for anyone.

“Dis is stable, despite your best efforts. As is the Pit. The Crossroads are excellent, of course.”

“I didn’t call you here for a status report,” Dean snarks. “I don’t care how the various kingdoms or whatever are doing. Given a choice, I’d raze it all.”

“I know,” Crowley says dryly. “Having a Knight who despises Hell wasn’t the worst plan I’ve ever had.”

“Why me though? Why not Sam or some other hunter?” Because he’s easily controlled, already half-demon, stupid enough to believe anything Crowley says. “Never mind.”

Snagging his shirts from the top of the toilet, he pushes past Crowley. The weapons bag on the desk catches his eye. Something to do, that’s not the Stynes. “What do you know about location spells?” If Crowley can find Kevin...


	40. Chapter 40

It took longer than Gadreel thought it would, but finally, he thinks the rebellion he never wanted to lead is prepared. “Is everyone in position?” He asks, focusing on Hannah. They’re in a different Heaven than normal, newer and still intact. “Everyone we can trust anyway?”

“We should be able to trust all of them,” Hannah says sourly, looking over the lake in front of them. “This level of subterfuge is unseemly.”

There’s no such thing as a young angel, but Hannah and the others of her division don’t remember Lucifer at his brightest. “Nor is sacrificing our siblings in a power play.”

“Castiel--”

“Even he, Sister.” He watches the lake, takes a moment to spread his wings, stretching them in preparation for what is to come. “He had reasons, but it was ultimately a sacrifice to his own ego.”

She takes an unnecessary breath before nodding. “All who are with us are prepared.”

Gadreel nods and slips into the corridors and hallways, Hannah following closely behind.

The door to Metatron’s office is shut tight against the dozen angels working the monitors and equipment in the antechamber.

Settling his wings, Gadreel grabs Hannah and marches her into the office. “Sir, I have located one of the wing leaders of the resistance.”

“The _empire_ , Gadreel,” Metatron drones, barely looking up from his absurd typewriter. “ _We’re_ the resistance. ”

“Of course, sir.” He pushes Hannah into the chair across from Metatron and retreats to the back of the room. It’s up to her now, to get Metatron to explain his plan.

“Do you think we’re the evil empire?” Metatron asks curiously, looking up finally. “I am bringing stability to Heaven. Soon, we’ll bring it to Earth!” He turns his attention to Hannah, staring at her. “You-- you’re not Asstiel.”

Gadreel flicks the switch to the All-Heaven address system, hiding the tell-tell light with his body while he stands watch over the confrontation.

“Castiel isn’t involved,” Hannah says. “He never has been.”

“Of course he was,” Metatron shoots back quickly. “I had him here, gave him orders to foment rebellion to my rule and then ensured he could escape.”

Gadreel fights to keep his face impassive. Anyone giving Castiel orders is doomed to failure. He will only follow them as far as it will take to save his pet humans.

Hannah merely looks at Metatron-- not cowed at all. “You let him escape. But failed to keep watch on him, failed to ensure your tool was sharp for your purposes.”

“Castiel has Fallen,” Gadreel points out. “He’s useless.”

“No, he can’t have,” Metatron says frantically, inserting a new page into his typewriter. “And if he has, I’ll fix it. I can do that. I’ve fixed all the angels, closed the Gates, plotted out what happens next. The angel tablet--” He cuts himself off, typing wildly.

“You closed the Gates?” Hannah asks.

“Of course I did,” Metatron responds, distracted. “I mean, Ambriel helped, but _barely_. I needed a stooge. I wanted to go home, but there were too many angels. They needed to leave.”

“Thousands _died_ ,” Gadreel bursts out. “We nearly lost the war against Abaddon. The only reason we didn’t was because Dean Winchester took the Mark of Cain. We might still lose the war against him, if it comes to that.”

“He’s human,” Metatron says dismissively. “No real threat to Heaven or angels.”

Gadreel stares at him, appalled. “He is a _Knight of Hell_!”

Several angels break into the office as Gadreel flips off the broadcast. Hannah vaults over the desk to push Metatron away from his typewriter and towards the angels she had specially picked for this duty.

It’s over quickly, Anael and Raduriel dragging Metatron from the room. Hannah insists that he receive a trial and other human innovations, and honestly, Gadreel just doesn’t care.

Metatron’s out of power, and, as Gadreel takes apart the typewriter-- whatever Metatron was using to maintain control, it’s--

It’s the angel tablet.

The actual word of their Father as inscribed by Metatron and he’s been using it to rearrange Heaven to suit his whims?

Snatching up the tablet, Gadreel stalks from the room, taking flight for Earth without a second thought. This can’t be allowed to stand, Heaven must be reopened, angels allowed to return to their duties or stay on Earth or--

He nearly trips when he lands, realizing that what he’s advocating for is… free will. The antithesis of everything Heaven has ever stood for, but he cannot see another way-- Their Father is long gone, leaving no one to rule in his place once the archangels fell. The only possible option is… free will.

But to grant angels the option for that, he must locate the prophet and find how to undo Metatron’s spell.

At least, being fully human, Kevin Tran will be easier to locate than Castiel.

* * *

Castiel looked around warden’s office curiously, trying to get a feel for the man. Several awards decorate the walls and a few photos of the warden in his uniform, but nothing personal, not even a nice pen.

“Another reporter?” The warden closes the door behind him, striding to the desk and setting a cup of coffee down. “As I’ve said before, we are still investigating the escape.”

“Yes, I read the press release, and watched the conference,” Castiel agrees, trying to be non-threatening. “And as fascinating as the escape is, I’m here on another matter.”

The warden relaxes slightly. “So what do you want?”

“Over the past month, a family member of seven of your prisoners has gone missing. I’m trying to figure out what they have in common.”

“So you sit around, tracking the dependents of inmates and hoping you can find a story? No. You’re going to have to come up with something better than that.”

Nodding, Castiel sets down the folder he’s been holding, flipping it to the correct page. He’d expected some resistance. “It’s not just your prisoners and it’s not just Arizona. I’m here because you have the highest number in a single location that doesn’t also require me driving halfway across the country.”

The warden thumbs through the reports-- dozens of them, it’s taken Castiel weeks to put the pattern together-- before looking up. “I’ll allow two interviews, _if_ any of them want to talk to you. Not Hargreeves or Rogovitch.”

At Castiel’s sharp look, he shakes his head. “The night of the escape… something went wrong, we think. I’m not at liberty to discuss more until our investigation is complete.”

“Of course.” Reclaiming his folder, Castiel flips through it before nodding. “Rodriguiz and Diver then. If they’re willing, of course.”

“Those two love to hear their own voice.” The warden picks up the phone and makes a couple of calls, before escorting Castiel to an interview room.

Rodriguiz and Diver are both convicted on any number of charges, mostly assault and battery with some other convictions to round things out.

Diver is delivered first, taking his seat with a sneer. He’s not a very interesting conversationalist, but Castiel does manage to steer them to the information he needs.

Three weeks ago, Diver’s father disappeared just as thoroughly as the prisoner who escaped; his grandfather was stabbed to death with his own knife; his great-grandfather fled Europe just ahead of murder charges… As far back as Diver knows, thieves and murderers.

Castiel swallows, glancing down at his notes while he waits for Rodriguiz and trying to put his thoughts in order. The folder he handed the warden is only some of the cases. Even cops are starting to notice, putting together disappearances along family trees.

He needs to call Sam or Dean with this. Having someone else to look at with him might help him stop whatever is happening.

The interview with Rodriguiz goes the much same way as the one with Diver. Family history of violence and murder, a skipped generation when his grandfather joined the military and harnessed it.

Castiel makes it most of the way into Tucson before finding a coffee shop. Pulling out his phone, he glares at the screen before sighing.

“‘Lo?” Even over the phone, Dean sounds tired and irritated.

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says gingerly. “I think I need your help.”

Dean is dead silent for a moment before he explodes. “ _Now_ you need my help? Now? After walking away two weeks ago without a fucking word and no goddamn contact since then? I thought you were _dead_ , you stupid son of a bitch.”

“My apologies,” Castiel says stiffly, leaning against his car and watching the sunset. “I wasn’t expecting it to take this long.”

“Answer the fucking phone next time.”

“Of course, Dean.” Clenching his jaw, Castiel glances at the warm light spilling out of the coffee shop, filled with happy couples and families. It’s not that cold, but he’d much rather be in there than out here, having another ridiculous fight. “You could also stop moping and assist me--”

“Oh, screw you, Cas. What do you want?”

“Someone with more experience to look at this!” Castiel nearly shouts. “I’m aware that I still miss aspects of human behavior.”

Dean falls silent, breathing harshly into the phone.

Grabbing the hand-me-down messenger bag he inherited from Sam, Castiel marches across the parking lot and into the coffee shop. Dean hasn’t ended the call yet, still seething, so he ignores him while ordering his coffee and finding a quiet corner to set up his laptop.

“What are you even looking at?” Dean finally asks, quieter. “You just disappeared.”

“Dozens of missing persons. Across the country at least, although I suspect it’s worldwide.” Castiel emails Dean the link to the files-- Charlie said this was easier than trying to send each one individually, although he’s not sure how-- before continuing. “Family groups, disappearing without a trace.”

“That prison escape a couple days ago? Uh… Tolley or whatever his name was.”

“I suspect so, although I couldn’t get in to see the cell. The warden--”

“Yeah, those guys are almost always dicks,” Dean says thoughtfully. “Do you need to be in Arizona any longer?”

“No. Not unless you think I missed something. I emailed you a link to everything except for my notes from today. A cup of coffee while I work on that, then… back to Kansas, I think.”

“Not the Bunker,” Dean says firmly. “The Stynes broke in, stole a few things. Possibly kidnapped Kevin. Meet me in, uh…” he trails off, probably looking at a map. “Uh, Lubbock. That’s… halfway-ish, between us, and close enough we can probably get somewhere tonight.”

“Dean, you can just look at what I sent you--”

“You know me, Cas. I’m crap at the reading thing. Better to just meet up.” He huffs. “Unless you don’t want to, which…”

“Don’t be obnoxious,” Castiel snaps. “I assumed you had better things to do. Especially if the Stynes are causing trouble.”

“My current plan for the Stynes is to walk in and murder them all.” He chuckles darkly at Castiel’s sharp intake of breath. “Yeah, I’m not so far gone that I don’t realize that’s a bad plan.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? You know I-- we-- would have helped you…”

“I shouldn’t need _help_ to keep my temper. Not for shit like this,” Dean says scornfully. “My shit choices, my problem.”

“Dean--”

“Shove it, Cas. It’s fine.”

Sighing, Castiel nods. He’s not going to win this argument over the phone. “As you wish. I’ll meet you in Lubbock in a few hours.” Hanging up, he looks mournfully at the untouched cup of coffee and sighs again.

More than anything right now, he misses his wings. Misses being able to just… take flight, disappear, maybe actually have some time to catch his notes up before he has to leave the beacon of light and humanity the shop represents.

But hoping for the impossible just makes it more likely that he’ll retake his grace at some point, become Heaven’s puppet again. Better to pour his coffee into a paper cup and disappear into the night.

* * *

Dean hates Lubbock with a passion that has very little to do with the actual city and a lot to do with a failed hunt. Even now, nearly fifteen years later, he smells blood on the dusty wind, something that should have faded ages ago.

Cas texted him the address of a motel on the west side of town nearly thirty minutes ago, leaving Dean to try to find the place in the dark, hoping Cas is still driving his pimpmobile so he knows which room.

Turns out _that_ worry was unfounded at least-- Cas is sitting on the stoop, looking lonely, his hands wrapped around a coffee mug when Dean pulls into the parking lot. Gone is the suit and tie-- they’ve been gone for months and good riddance-- but also the trench coat. Instead, he’s wearing the same jeans, t-shirt, flannel, and jacket combo that Dean’s been wearing his whole life. And while Dean accepts that some things are easier to replace on hunts than others, somehow, Castiel without his trench coat is just… sad.

Which is probably a good sign that Dean needs to get the fuck out of this car and go kill something again.

“Howdy, Cas,” Dean calls out the window as he parks his shitty four-door. “What’s shaking?”

“Dean.” Cas pushes himself to his feet, leaving the coffee cup on the ground. “You came.” Cas’s arms twitch, like he wants to bring them up to hug Dean but thinks better of it.

“Course I did. This was my idea.” Dean pauses before dragging Cas into the hug they both want, holding on too long and too tight for what they are. For the first time in _weeks_ , Dean can ignore the pulse of the Mark, sinking into Cas’s embrace.

“You got anymore of that coffee?” Dean mumbles into Cas’s hair. “Or whiskey? I ain’t picky.”

“I can make a fresh pot, although, it’s late enough I assumed we’d get started in the morning.”

Blinking, Dean pulls away to check his watch. “Dude, it’s barely midnight.”

“And I woke up this morning north of Flagstaff before talking my way into a prison outside of Tucson and interviews with some truly terrible examples of your species. It’s been a _very_ long day.”

“You alright?”

“Mostly human.” Cas shrugs, bending down to snag his mug. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be.”

Dean watches him, the brittle edge to his words. “I’m still plenty wired. Lets get inside, you can sleep while I read shit.” Cas looks doubtful, and Dean can’t blame him.

The room, once they’re inside, is better than the shit Dean’s been finding for weeks now. Music themed, with photos and fake autographs on the walls, he can’t smell mildew or bodily fluids, which honestly, is the best part about it. “One bed, Cas? Really?”

“The attendant didn’t ask, and frankly, I don’t care.”

“Awesome.” It comes out far more irritated than he intends, like he suddenly doesn’t want to have anything to do with Cas.

“If the idea of sharing a bed with me disgusts you that much--”

“What? No!” He doesn’t want to fight with Cas, not tonight, _definitely_ not over this. Cas is more than capable of taking care of himself. If he doesn’t care about sharing a bed, Dean’s not going to either. Not like Dean’s going to be getting much sleep anyway. “It’s fine, I just didn’t…”

“Shut up, Dean,” Cas says, exhaustion already bleeding back through. He points towards a few thick file folders on the desk before crossing the room to the mini-fridge in the corner. He pulls out a six-pack of beer-- some local brewery, Dean thinks, not one of their usual standbys-- and thunks it on the table. “Beer. Case. Try to come to bed at some point.”

Dean’d love to, honestly. Would much rather curl up next to Cas than some stupid missing persons file. But the longer he goes without a proper hunt, the stronger the Mark gets, the less sleep he gets. Fewer nightmares that way, he guesses, but less in the way of mental breaks too, leaving him too tired to process anything new. Frowning, he watches Cas pull off a couple of layers before climbing into bed.

“Good night, Dean.”

“Night, dude.” Dean stares at him for a long time before shaking his head and getting to work.

By the time dawn breaks over the horizon, his eyes are thick and gritty with exhaustion, but Cas definitely has something. Dean’s just not sure what. Thousands of people are missing, across every demographic he can think of. How the cops haven’t noticed this, Dean has no idea, except a bunch of them are missing too. Something, _someone_ , is making a point.

“Dean?” Cas yawns behind him sometime after dawn. “You didn’t come to bed.” Dean swears he sounds disappointed.

“Wasn’t tired,” Dean lies. “Got caught up in the thing and well…” he trails off with a shrug.

“Dean--”

“I’m fine.” Dean flips the notepad closed angrily. “I’m going to shower.”

“Okay.” If Cas says anything else, it’s hidden under the weak spray of the water.

He still doesn’t have a firm grip on his temper by the time he’s out of the shower, but close enough that he can fake it-- or at least, stop taking it out on Cas.

“Need I remind you that you’re the one who wanted to do this hunt together?” Cas demands when Dean emerges. “I wanted your opinion, not for you to shove me to the side.”

“That’s not what--”

Cas holds up his notepad, covered in doodles and scribbles of possibilities and scratched out half-baked plans. “So you _weren’t_ planning on leaving me here while you ran off to confront Cain?”

It takes a moment to see what Cas saw right off-- the doodles, the stray marks, hell, even some of the scratch outs, are all the Mark of Cain. Repeated over and over, in black ink and pencil.

Dean collapses onto the foot of the bed, ignoring that he’s mostly naked outside of a too small towel. “I didn’t--” He closes his eyes and swallows before trying again. “Apparently, my subconscious is smarter than I am. Cain said if he gave me the Mark, that there would come a day when he would call. I guess he’s ready to die.”

Cas stares at him blankly for a moment before shaking his head. “You think Cain is calling you? By kidnapping people?”

“The only thing all these people have in common? Murder.” Dean shakes his head, grabbing his notes from Cas and flipping through them.

“The father of murder,” Cas breathes out. “He’s been planning this.”

“Probably for centuries. Waiting for someone suicidal or desperate enough to not ask questions.” And he’d certainly been that. Certain that there was no other way to defeat Abaddon, reeling from Gadreel’s betrayal, and Cas missing…

“You had encouragement to get there.”

“Gotta tell you, that doesn’t really make me feel better about it.” Shivering, Dean turns to dig through his bag and pull on clothes. “Not that it matters, tricked whatever, we had an agreement.”

“You can’t be serious. He’s using you to commit suicide!”

“You and I both know he’s not kidnapping them. He’s killing them, stashing to bodies someplace. Did you look at the ages, Cas? When you were compiling everything?” Dean points angrily at the stack of folders. “Some of them are kids, Cas. At least three under the age of five. I don’t know why he picked them, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. Cain is killing _kids_ and I’m the only one who can stop it.”

“Dean--” Cas breaks off and shakes his head. “You’re right, of course. Let me get ready and we can go.”

Dean watches him suspiciously, but Cas strips off his dirty t-shirt and heads towards the bathroom. Dean follows him thoughtlessly, leaning against the doorway and watching Cas brush his teeth. Glancing down, he catches black ink curling around Cas’s ribs in the bottom corner of the mirror.

Stepping forward, he wraps his arm around Cas’s torso, framing the tattoo with his hand. The Mark sparks, digging its claws in when his forearm brushes Cas’s skin, but Dean can ignore it for a moment. He can’t read it, his Enochian isn’t that good, but he recognizes Lucifer’s sigil in the center. “What-- When did you get this?”

“Several months ago. After I cut out my grace.” Cas meets his eyes in the mirror. “It seemed like a good idea to make it as hard as possible for other angels to locate me.”

“I thought once you were human--”

“I’m not,” Cas says flatly. “I’m mortal and lack grace, but I am not, and never will be, _human_.” Sighing, he closes his eyes briefly before stepping out of Dean’s loose hold. “I’m sorry. What was your question?”

“So Heaven can’t find you?”

“Supposedly not, however, as Gadreel was able to locate me anyway, despite everything… I suspect they simply found a different way. Tracking you, or Sam or Charlie.”

“Shit, man. I’m sorry, that never should have happened.”

Cas shrugs. “What’s done is done. Gadreel cannot force me to return, and I don’t believe he will share the secret to finding me with any other angels.” His eyes are almost grey in the bathroom light, jaw clenched.

They need a subject change, immediately. “Any ideas for where Cain is hiding out? We travel a lot slower than Crowley, and we’ll need his help too.”

“West Virginia,” Cas says firmly, pushing past him and pulling on his shirts. “Up in the back country.”

“This sounds suspiciously like you’ve been to visit him.”

“I tracked him there during your time away to see if he would be willing to share any information.”

“Alright. West Virginia it is. Awesome.”

* * *

The book Kevin needs isn’t in the library, or the common rooms. The card catalog-- once he figured out how to _use_ it-- says the Codex is in sub-basement two, room nineteen, along with the other books that are too dangerous to be in circulation.

Blowing out a breath, Kevin stares at the destruction. Entire shelves have been emptied onto the floor, the concrete discolored where loose pages landed, dozens upon dozens of books tossed willy nilly.

“Having a second pair of hands would be useful right now,” Kevin mutters helplessly while he looks around. The organizational system is trashed. Setting his phone and keys on a nearby shelf, Kevin drops to the ground, and pulls the nearest pile of books towards him.

He falls into a stupor as he works, pulling books towards him, carefully smoothing pages and setting them aside to either be reshelved or repaired. The floor beneath him rumbles briefly but he ignores it, focused on the books. They’re what’s important here. Not the Bunker and certainly not Kevin himself.

Find the Codex. Return to Rowena. Get his reward.

* * *

“Charlie. Charlie, phone.”

Charlie starts flailing for her phone before Sam’s voice even fully penetrates her consciousness. Glancing at the number with sleep blurred eyes, she blinks rapidly. Le2665? “Hello?” She snaps her fingers in Sam’s direction-- his bedside light is still on, it can’t be as late as it feels-- and mimes pen and paper. “Hello?”

Silence.

Or, as she listens closer and comes more awake, not silence, but not someone deliberately talking on the phone either. Setting it down, she puts the call on speaker and turns up the volume.

“Gotta find it, gotta find it. Find it and she’ll reward me. Find it and I’ll be free. Gotta find it…”

Charlie stops, staring down at her phone, listening to Kevin-- last heard mangling Latin in preparation for his final-- repeat the same things over and over, before the call abruptly ends.

“Was that--” Sam starts, still looking at the phone.

“Kevin, yeah,” Charlie says shortly. Pushing back the covers, she pulls her laptop over and starts searching for a lead on that weird phone number. “You ever seen anything like this?”

Sam goes still for a moment before pulling his own laptop over and opening a new window. “Get dressed, we’ll leave as soon as I know where we’re going.”

Raising an eyebrow, Charlie goes to the bathroom to pull her street clothes back on.

They’re on the road in less than fifteen minutes, speeding north along the interstate and into the desert.

“How did you recognize it so fast?” Charlie asks, looking at the screen on her phone while she texts Dean, Cas, and Gavin, ordering them to the Bunker as fast as they could get there. “Doesn’t look like any phone number I’ve ever seen.”

“You wouldn’t. They stopped using that format decades ago. When was the last time a building called you?” Sam smoothly changes lanes, opening up the Impala’s engine and passing a line of semi’s. “That wasn’t in a video game.”

“A… friend… has a computer program that calls whenever it gets a hit in a database that can’t wait. But it has a real number it calls from. Alec hates explaining things, and I haven’t felt like digging into the code.”

“But that’s a computer program,” Sam points out. “Alerting you that there’s something to deal with. If/then statements, right?”

“This wasn’t a computer program,” Charlie says slowly. “Or if it was, not one programmed by us. Who did the programming? How did they get my phone number-- I’m not even a legacy, so it’s not tied to blood…”

Sam hmms, driving into the dark while Charlie pokes around on her phone. She dozes off after a while, trusting him to wake her up when he needs a break.

Hours later, she wakes up as he takes an exit ramp to face almost due east and immediately starts looking for someplace to stop.

“Gonna need you to take her for a while,” Sam says blearily. “Just for a couple hours, and we never tell Dean, but…”

“I solemnly swear I will drive like my grandma on the way to church.” Charlie pauses, shakes her head. “Okay, significantly faster than that, but you get the idea.”

Sam gives her a tired thumbs up, pulling into a gas station.

* * *

Kevin tries the door again, kicking it when it won’t unlock. He doesn’t remember closing it behind him, but it is, and locked--

He’s stuck. Until… something. He doesn’t remember that either.

Something will happen, and then he’ll find the Codex, and then he’ll return to Rowena.

“Kevin?” The man’s voice is familiar, but doesn’t have a name. “Are you okay in there?”

“I can’t find it,” Kevin whines. “It’s supposed to be in here, the card says it’s in here, but it’s _not_. I don’t _understand_.”

“Alright, Kev,” a woman says soothingly. “We’ll get you out of there in just a moment and then we’ll help you.”

He doesn’t want to be soothed and he doesn’t want help. He wants the damn codex and his reward.

The two on the other side of the door mutter something back and forth-- he can’t understand the words, just the sound of their voices-- before the doorknob jostles and turns.

Kevin’s ready, ripping the door open as soon as it’s unlocked and sprinting into the hallway. He’s free and can start again and then--

He trips, falls flat on his face. A single stair is in the middle of the corridor and he’s _certain_ that it wasn’t there before. The man and woman catch up to him while he’s still trying to get to his feet.

“Kev, what the _hell_?” She demands. “We thought you were in trouble, and you’re hanging out in the basement?”

The man-- long hair, it’s familiar, so is she, something is _wrong--_ hauls Kevin to his feet and looks him in the eye. “Kevin?”

He tries to jerk himself free again, but the man’s hands are too tight on his arms. “What?” Kevin snarls. “Let me go. I gotta find it.”

“Find what?”

“The _Codex_ ,” he nearly sobs in frustration. “She wants it and I can’t be free until I give it to her.” Blankly, he looks up to meet their eyes. “I don’t remember.”

“Shit,” Red breathes out. “I guess that confirms the what, if not the who.” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “Ideas?”

Long hair shrugs, tightening his grip on Kevin’s arms when he tries to struggle. “This looks like a compulsion. They’re rare-- easy enough to cast, but most witches don’t have the power to make them stick.”

“So he’s stuck like this until he complete the assigned task.”

“Or she dies.”

“No!” Kevin cries. “You can’t kill her.” It’s the wrong thing to say. Any hope of getting Red to release him or help him find his prize crashes to the ground.

“Right,” Long hair says finally. “We apparently should have let whoever’s controlling the Bunker keep him safe.”

“We needed to know where he was,” Red points out. “Heaven and Hell are both busy right now, but eventually, they’ll get their acts together.”

* * *

There has to be a way to identify the witch who cast this on Kevin. Frowning, Sam pats Kevin down thoroughly for hex bags, but doesn’t come up with anything more useful than a flash drive and some spare change.

Handing both to Charlie, Sam pushes Kevin into his room and locks the door from the outside.

“This sucks,” Charlie says quietly. “There really isn’t anything--”

“Not without a name.” Sam leans against the wall. “We have a better idea of what she’s after now-- a codex of some kind-- but…”

“Okay,” Charlie says firmly. “I’m gonna work that angle. How many of the things can this place hold anyway, cross-reference that with what’s supposed to be in that room, and…”

“A title is better than nothing. Gives us something to start with.” Sam sighs. “I know a witch in Idaho. I’ll give her a call, see if she’s got any ideas.”

Charlie nods absently, fingers already flying over her phone. “Let’s get going.”

Sam drags her into a hug, wrapping her in his arms and crushing her phone to his chest. “It’s not your fault, Charlie. Whoever this was, she knew what she was doing.”

“Doesn’t help. He was under my watch and--”

“I know. Been there, failed that.” He sighs deeply, releasing her. “Doesn’t change a damn thing though.”

Dragging a hand through his hair, Sam follows Charlie back to the map room and kitchen. He can send Dean and Cas a status update and then call Nora and… fuck, he’s so tired already.


	41. Chapter 41

The cops find where Cain’s been stashing the bodies before Dean and Cas even get out of Texas, the news splashing across a dozen radio stations. Some kid-- and he really is just a kid, eight years old and working on a scout badge-- stumbled across a body half dragged out of a shallow grave by coyotes or wolves.

Minnesota isn’t any closer than West Virginia, and colder, but Dean relaxes into the drive faster. “Have they released the names on any of the bodies yet?” he asks while Cas has his phone out, somewhere in Colorado.

“Not publicly,” Cas answers shortly. “And Sam and Charlie have their hands full with Kevin.”

Dean sighs, but nods. “At least they found him, that’s a win, right?”

“A prophet under the control of an unknown, but very powerful, witch searching for a specific text that Kevin-- despite knowing the contents of the Bunker’s library better than any of us-- cannot locate. If it’s a win, it barely counts.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “But it’s a start.”

They lapse back into silence before Cas shakes his head, pulls a stolen badge from the glove compartment, and starts making phone calls. He makes dozens, following some rabbit trail of a lead Dean can’t see, rattling off information and taking notes before he sits back with a satisfied nod. “Agents Ford and Evans have been added to the update list. The local authorities will email us a link to the database they’re building as they identify the remains.”

“How far back are we?”

Cas swallows hard, his eyes darting away to stare at the grey fields around them. “The earliest burial uncovered so far was five or six months ago.”

“But they don’t think they’ve found the oldest one.”

“No.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters, tightening his grip on the wheel before he can reach for the Mark. That won’t help. “So it’s probably closer to, oh, eight months ago? When I found him, when I made him give me this douchey thing, when I got him to kill again?”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Cas whispers, barely audible over the road noise. “But you didn’t _make_ Cain do anything.”

“All these deaths… they’re my fault.

“They’re _Cain’s_ fault. He doesn't have to do this.”

“Centuries of sobriety, and then he goes on a killing spree? Pretty sure this one’s on me, ya know, the guy who dragged him off the wagon.”

Cas just looks at him, not believing. That’s his problem. He still believes there’s something worth saving in Dean.

The next time they stop for gas, Dean abandons Cas to the vagaries of the pump, disappearing behind the station in search of something like privacy. Pulling out his phone, his thumb hovers uncertainly over Crowley’s name before touching it lightly.

“What now, lover boy, I’m busy.”

“I need the First Blade.”

“The last time you had that thing in your possession, you threatened to _kill_ me.”

“I don’t need the Blade to kill you, Crowley. Not if I really wanted to.” Dean blows out a frustrated breath. “Cain however…”

“No,” Crowley says flatly. “Absolutely not. Your angel toy and I made a deal, and we’ll be sticking to it.”

“He’s committing genocide, Crowley. Maybe literally, I don’t know. What do you think is going to happen when he gets bored with humans and goes back to Hell?”

“It will be entertaining to watch him try for the throne.”

“How certain are you that you got all of Lucifer’s loyalists? Or the other dukes wouldn’t turn to him instead of you?”

“Worry about your own position, squirrel.” Crowley pauses. “I can control Hell.”

“If you decide to quit being a pompous dick, we’re heading to Minnesota. Feel free to actually stick your neck out for once,” Dean snarls and hangs up. Slamming his fist into the brick wall, he clenches his jaw so he doesn’t start yelling.

The Mark throbs, slightly out of sync with his heartbeat, and sickly green ichor bleeds into the scrapes on his knuckles. Growling, he marches over to the car, snatching a cheap paper towel from the dispenser next to the pump, and presses it against the scrapes.

“Dean?”

“Not right now, Cas.”

“Dean Winchester,” Cas grinds out. “You will _listen_ to me and you will fucking pay attention.”

“Geez, Cas. Didn’t know you cared.”

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Cas snaps. He pulls Dean to the front of the car, grabbing more towels as they pass.

“It’s not that big of a deal, Cas. Just some scraped knuckles.”

“Which is why you’re fighting me so much,” Cas points out dryly. “It’s your dominate hand, let me at least check if you broke something.”

Dean tries to remember what Sam’s stupid meditation tapes said. ‘ _Breathe in for five, hold for five, breathe out for five.’_ He runs through it a few times, Cas watching him worriedly, before he thinks he can handle anyone seeing it. They’re both shivering in the cold, but Cas doesn’t head towards the warmth of the car anymore than Dean does.

Hesitantly, shamefully, Dean peels the paper towel free and shoves it in a pocket to deal with later. The blood has mostly congealed, red with only small hints of the green, barely visible in the florescent lights of the gas station.

Cas frowns, turning Dean’s hand back and forth, before lightly running a finger above his knuckles. “How long has this been happening?”

“Bleeding Hulk green? First time.” Dean shrugs, trying to play it off. “I punched a wall. Blood happens.”

“Yes, but not _green_ blood, not in species that use iron to transport oxygen in their bloodstream.”

Dean scoffs. “I’m not feeling particularly vulcan-ish right now, Cas. Pretty far from it, actually.”

“Understandable. You’re worried about the people Cain is taking.”

“Barely even tops the list,” Dean admits, pulling his hand free and drumming his fingers against nothing, trying to stretch the scabs before they dry and crack open at the worst possible time. “But it’s not like that’s news.”

Nodding, Cas shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly shivering in a breeze that kicks up. He watches quietly as Dean hangs up the nozzle and double checks that Baby is ready to go. “When we’ve stopped for the night, I’d like to take a closer look. I… I’m worried.”

“Sure thing,” Dean lies, sliding back into the driver’s seat and sticking the key into the ignition. “Science experiment me up, baby.”

* * *

Sam frowns looking at the list of possible witches with the clout to pull this off. Except, as Nora pointed out several times, she is very much _not_ part of circles who would do this sort of thing, and the old witches-- the really old and powerful ones-- don’t leave trails.

“I’ve heard-- even calling it a rumor gives it too much weight-- of a Grand Coven that’s trying to reform.” Nora pauses, before continuing, “There’s always rumors of that sort of thing though. Teenagers love to make shit up and the internet makes it a lot easier for their voices to get heard.”

“That seems uncharacteristically harsh,” Sam points out. “And judgmental.”

Nora sighs. “Spent the afternoon with a group of ‘em. Every single one of them thought it was going to work like The Craft or Buffy. A few words, presto-chango, a whole new life.”

“That spell you sent me a couple months ago-- the glamour for Cas-- wasn’t that a few words and a whole new life?”

“Well, yeah. But I’m not going to tell _kids_ that. Even if society could handle the chaos, I couldn’t.”

Sam hmms, nodding even though she can’t see him. “So we’re probably looking at old and powerful, and maybe or maybe not part of this Grand Coven.” Sighing, he looks down at the list of names again and shakes his head. “It’s a start at least. Thanks, Nora.”

“Not a problem, Sam. Oh, I gave a hunter your number a couple weeks back-- her partner died and she doesn’t like hunting alone.”

“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll see who else needs a partner, get them set up.” Hanging up the phone, Sam sighs.

“Are we running a dating service now?” Charlie asks, looking up from her pile of books. She stops, makes a face. “Maybe we should, actually. There’s an awful lot of lonely and paranoid hunters out there.”

“Hunter needs a new partner, that’s all I know. And lonely is not what causes the paranoia.”

“Yeah, I know. But solving it can’t hurt. Between you and your perpetual single-ness, Dean--”

“Dean doesn’t need any help with his dating life right now. He has one.”

“Banging every queer dude in the west while a demon is not a dating life.”

“I’m pretty sure Crowley was involved for all of them,” Sam points out with a shudder. “Plus there’s Cas.”

“Still. You’re single and have been forever, Dean’s… whatever, and Rowena ghosted me. Major suckage.”

“Wait, Rowena?” Sam asks, reaching for his notepad. “What’s her last name?”

“You are fucking _kidding_ me.” Charlie jumps to her feet. “I’m going to kill her. This whole time? _Fucking hell_.”

“Need to confirm it was her first.” Sam thinks for a moment before grabbing his coffee cup and heading down the hallway towards Kevin’s room. “Let me handle this. We don’t know what else might be going on.”

“I don’t _need_ to know what else is going on. She winter soldier’d Kevin and lied to me.” Charlie charges ahead, face set. For the first time, Sam sees the veteran of Oz’s wars hiding behind the sweet nerd.

He forces her to let him enter Kevin’s room first, easing the door open slowly.

Kevin has completely trashed his room, blankets and books strewn across the floor, clothes everywhere, and the bed upended against the wall, forming a dark void in the corner. But no Kevin.

“Kev?” Sam calls quietly. “We’ve got some questions for you. Once you answer them, we’ll help you find the Codex, okay?”

There’s a vague assenting noise from the blackness in the corner.

“Do you know the name of the witch who told you to find the Codex?”

“Yes,” the void grinds out. “She told _me_. She didn’t tell me about you though.”

“Can you tell us her name?” This is worse than trying to pry emotions out of Dean. “Just a name, or what she looks like, and we’ll fix it all.”

“R--” Kevin chokes out before falling silent.

“Kevin?” Sam rushes into the room, yanking the bed away from the wall. Kevin lies on his side, curled into a tight ball, jaw clenched shut. For a moment Sam sees the imprint of a thumb pressing Kevin’s jaw closed, but then it disappears. “Shit. Charlie, find me something to put between his teeth, he’s going to break them.”

She’s back in seconds, pressing a folded washcloth into Sam’s hands. “Do you want--”

“Keep it.” He shoves it back at her. Shoving his fingers into Kevin’s mouth, Sam pries his jaws apart millimeter by millimeter. “Go, go,” he says as soon as he has it open enough, and Charlie wedges the still folded cloth in, keeping Kevin’s mouth open enough that he can’t hurt himself.

Collapsing to the side, Sam runs a hand through his hair. There’s nothing else they can do for Kevin right now-- his entire body is locked up tight, shaking with how hard the major muscles are contracting.

“I’ve not seen anything like that since Oz,” Charlie admits quietly.

“She cares more about protecting her identity than those she has under her control.”

“And more than she cares about getting what she wants.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. Kevin is starting to unlock next to them, and they have what they needed. “Time to pull out that location spell of Bobby’s,” Sam sighs. “Did you ever figure out which codex he’s looking for? I’m assuming not the webseries.”

“Nadya’s,” Charlie says shortly. “Which, given what I’ve been able to find about it? Is nothing we want to lose.”

“Death, destruction, rocks fall?”

“Pretty much. She was a witch-- a powerful one in her own right-- and incredibly skilled at reverse engineering other witches’ spells. Industrial espionage, except magic.” She swallows. “And code breaking.”

“So she’s after this thing to--”

“The records I can find are pretty slim, but sounds like Nadya translated something called the Book of the Damned-- which might as well be the damn Voynich manuscript or Linear A, near as I can tell-- and then promptly re-encoded it, in her own cipher. That translation is the Codex.”

“Awesome,” Sam breathes out, banging his head on the underside of the bed behind him. “And because this is us, I assume _anyone_ being able to read the Book of the Damned is bad?”

“Is anything called the Book of the Damned _good_?” Charlie shoots back.

“Go away,” Kevin croaks between them. “If you’re going to keep talking about it, go away. Every time you talk about it, about _her_ , it’s like an ice pick.”

Obediently, they lapse into silence, Charlie lightly petting Kevin. After another twenty minutes or so, Kevin is completely uncurled and actually looks like himself for the first time since they found him.

Sam pushes himself to his feet, quietly letting himself out while Kevin and Charlie doze in the quiet.

This needs to end, now.

They have a name, which is as good as GPS in their circles. If Bobby’s spell doesn’t work, there’s others. Even if it requires making a deal with Crowley, he’s finding this bitch putting an end to this.

* * *

“Are you sure about this?” Dean looks at the very modern sheriff’s station across the street. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I generally try to _avoid_ cops in towns where I’ve already been once.”

“It’s a wonder you can go anywhere at all in that case,” Castiel snaps.

“I’ve not been arrested that many times,” Dean points out. “And some of those were under completely different names.”

“We have an appointment. She is a very busy woman with _hundreds_ of dead bodies in her town. We are not going to skip it,” Castiel says firmly, watching Dean carefully. Something is off, far more than a lack of sleep or coffee.

Dean’s hand comes up to cover the Mark. It tightens, white knuckles clearly visible in the early dusk. “Fine,” Dean says roughly. “But it’s on you to get us out of here if I get arrested.”

“Of course, Dean.”

Turning on his heel, Dean marches across the street like he’s going to his execution instead of a meeting with a small town sheriff. Castiel watches him for a moment before hurrying to catch up. “Is the Mark--”

“Not now,” Dean interrupts. “You wanted to hunt, so let’s hunt. Leave my bullshit out of it.”

Raising an eyebrow and glancing at Dean’s arm-- where his hand is again wrapped around the Mark-- Castiel nods and holds the door open. “Agents Ford and Evans to see the sheriff?”

The receptionist nods and points towards the chairs against the wall. “Sheriff Hanscum will be with you in just a moment, gentlemen. She’s just finishing up a press conference.”

“Thank you, Sally,” Dean says with a disarming grin. “Is there anywhere we could get a cup of coffee? It’s been a long day and I don’t think it’s going to get any shorter.”

Flustered, Sally points them towards the station kitchen and a pot of coffee that’s been burnt beyond drinkability.

“Is there a reason we’re here instead of in the waiting room?” Castiel glares at the paper cup of sludge in his hand. “This can’t even be called coffee anymore.”

“You having opinions on coffee is so weird. And cops leave all the best case material on their desks. So we’re gonna take a short stroll while of stretching our legs.”

Sighing, Castiel follows him, glancing at each desk and hiding his disappointment behind the coffee cup. The desks do have paperwork on them… but it’s all either covered or unrelated to the pile of bodies.

Slowly, they meander back to reception just in time for the press conference to let out, a dozen reporters streaming out of the tiny room to the side, still shouting the occasional question before being herded outside. The sheriff appears a couple minutes later, a mug of coffee and a donut in hand. “Hiya! Are you my FBI agents?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Castiel says quickly. “Agents Ford and Evans.”

“Come on through, boys.” She looks them over with a raised eyebrow before gesturing towards the back of the bullpen. Once they’re safely behind a closed door, she sets her coffee down. “So, you’re full of bullpucky. Want to tell me why you’re really here, _agents_?”

Castiel sucks in a deep breath, mind racing, before Dean cuts him off.

“We really are here about the bodies, sheriff.”

“Then you’re not Feds,” she says bluntly. “I’ve got every lab tech I can beg, borrow, or steal from three counties eating my budget for at least the next six months and you know what the the Feds said when I asked for help?” She pauses just long enough for Castiel to open his mouth before barreling on. “That they’re still ID’ing corpses from that mess in Lincoln over the summer and we’re next on the list. That was _six hours_ ago, gentlemen. So, either you’re not really here about my mess or you’re not really Feds. In either case, I’ll thank you to please get the hell out of my station because I do not have time for you right now.”

Dean thinks for a moment before huffing, meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Okay, sheriff, here’s what you need to know: monsters are real. And the one responsible for the mess in your backyard? Is pretty close to the biggest, baddest one around. And we’re the only ones who can stop him.”

“That was possibly… unnecessarily blunt,” Castiel points out, taking a sip of his (wretched) coffee. “Does that normally work?”

“Oofta.” The sheriff blinks at them before waving at the chairs in front of her desk. She reaches over and hits a button on her phone. “Sally, can you hold all calls for a bit please? It appears this meeting just got a lot more interesting.”

Sally makes some affirmative noise that the sheriff immediately cuts off.

“Sheriff?” Castiel asks. “Are you--”

“Donna, please. And your names?”

“Castiel and Dean.” Half standing, Castiel shakes her hand before dropping back into his chair. “We appreciate you not calling your officers in here.”

“I’m not saying I won’t, but you’ve bought yourselves some time.” She leans back in her chair and takes a bite of her donut. “Honestly, fellas, even kicking you out is too much trouble right now. I’ve got too many other things going on to worry about a little impersonation. Especially if you can help.”

“Well, alright… Donna. Let’s lay our cards on the table and see what we’ve got.” Dean pulls his chair closer to the desk and gestures for the folder that Castiel is holding.

Over the next forty-five minutes, they’re able to put names to nearly half of the corpses found, the rest too far gone to be able to ID without forensics. That is sufficient to convince Donna that they have at least some of the answers that she’s looking for.

“Cas, any ideas on where he’s going to go next?” Dean asks. “Near as I can tell, he’s blown through the Rodriguiz’s.”

“The Divers too. Tolley as well, I think?” Castiel shakes his head, trying to organize the dozens of families he has swirling in his memory right now into something that’s useful.

“Tolley has a son,” Donna says, looking at something on her computer screen. “Estranged, lives with his mom in… oh, not very far from here actually. ‘Bout an hour.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathes out. “He’s not reported missing?”

“No amber alert yet,” Donna agrees, frowning. “But I can’t pull him into protective custody either, not across state lines.”

“Even if you did, it wouldn’t mean anything,” Castiel points out, draining the last of his coffee and pitching the cup into the trash can in the corner. “Cain could easily walk in here and walk out with the boy.”

“Kinda picked that up when he walked out with a murderer on death row.”

“Right then,” Dean slaps his knee and pushes himself to his feet. “We’ll get the kid and you keep things under control here.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel pulls out one of the business cards they keep on hand and scribbles both Sam and Jody’s phone numbers on the back. “Sam works us frequently. Jody is the sheriff in Sioux Falls. If you have any questions, she might be a good resource for you.”

“Right. There are more of you.” Donna stares at the card before sliding it into her pocket. Opening her office door, she shakes their hands again, keeping an eye on the bullpen beyond. “Thank you for your help, agents. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says quietly. “For everything.”

She grins, a bright thing without any of the shadows he thought they might be inflicting on her. “Oh, not a problem. We’ll keep doing our thing.”

* * *

Charlie ignores the call, letting it go to voicemail while she pours over the last bit of lore they have in the Bunker about the stupid Book of the Damned and Nadya’s Codex.

Her phone rings again, barely catching her attention from her perusal of the Vatican’s private library catalog. Worse than Hogwarts, thousands of books, none of them digitized, hell, even the catalog is barely digital with only a few fields filled out. Glancing over the record, her heart sinks.

“Here,” she coughs, taking a swig of her coffee-- cold and stale, when did she fill it last?-- and pushing the screen towards Sam. “Looks like Rome got ahold of the Book of the Damned around the end of World War One, held onto it for a few years and then…”

“Lost it,” Sam says flatly. “Uh… stolen, presumed destroyed?”

“They marked a lot of things that went missing in ‘44 that way.” Charlie snorts, glancing over the short list. “From what I can tell, mostly things that would be politically problematic if the Allies found them.”

“Like a giant books of evil spells.”

“Yep. Or it’s slightly less evil companion volume.”

“So, what. You think Rowena has the book and is looking for the codex because she can’t read it?”

“I don’t know what I think, not really. That certainly fits all the evidence but…” Charlie trails off, glaring at her coffee cup and wishing it was something stronger. “How the fuck did I misread her so badly?”

Sam glances up, quirks an eyebrow. “My greatest hits include _Ruby_. I’m not the best person to ask about how to determine if your girlfriend is trustworthy.”

“Demon blood and Lucifer, ahoy!” Taking back the computer, Charlie leans back in her chair and blows out a breath. “The thing is… I don’t think the Vatican ever had the Codex. Because the Men of Letters records say they got it in 1857.”

“That’s before the Bunker was even built.”

“But not before the central organization was formed. We know they moved a bunch of stuff here for safe keeping… the Codex was probably part of that.”

“Oh,” Sam looks up from his side of the research and stares at her for a long moment. Pushing himself to his feet, he slops some more coffee into their mugs before grabbing Dean’s whiskey from the side table. “The Stynes.”

“The Smiths? The Jones?”

“They’re a family from Louisiana. Henry found them, brought ‘em around here a couple times,” Sam says slowly. “They’re supposedly Men of Letters legacies, same as us, but… I don’t know. They always rubbed me and Dean the wrong way. Like they weren’t who they said they were.”

“Like maybe they were traitors?”

“Or cuckoo birds.” Sam swallows. “They’ve been interested in a Codex since we unearthed this place. Wanted to take it out of the Bunker the first time they showed up.”

“So we’ve got a powerful, old witch with the Book of the Damned on one side and a powerful old family with the Codex on the other.”

“A powerful old family who were instigators for both World Wars and God knows what else.”

“Fuck,” Charlie breathes out. “More nazi’s.”

“I don’t know for sure--”

“If they’re just normal jackasses, I’ll apologize after punching them. But punching them is still on the table.”

“Fair enough,” Sam agrees. “You think you can track them?”

“I’d be surprised if Dean already hasn’t. So we can just sneak the Death Star plans away him and then do our own trench run.” Taking a sip of her well-fortified coffee, she digs into the cloud back up of Dean’s computer. “We don’t really need to track them anyway, just figure out where they keep their shit. Do you remember anything else about them?”

“Uh… they had an annex, near Shreveport, we never did figure out exactly what that meant. Some other places too, Dean dug deep for a while, but then--” He breaks off and shrugs. “Then we had a thousand other things to worry about and they got back burnered.”

“Good, makes it easier to do… this.” Pulling up everything Dean had, Charlie starts to search through it.

“That’s great, Charlie. But we’re no closer to figuring out what to do about Kevin. We can’t just leave him like this-- he’s got finals.”

“I got him set up with incompletes. Shouldn’t push back graduation more than a semester, although if it does, it does, and we’ll deal with it.” Charlie sighs. “You’re right though. We can’t give Ro the Codex any more than we can let the Stynes have it. Ugh.”

“Okay, priorities. Get the compulsion off Kevin; hunt down the Codex and the Book of the Damned; and get all of it out of the hands of witches and nazis.”

“Yes, sir, General Solo, sir.” Charlie tosses off a sloppy salute, pushes her computer to the side, and races to the card catalog.

* * *

The wreckage of Dis spills across the plains of Hell, those who scattered before the battle slowly creeping back into the alleys and hidden passages of the city. His again, and yet another head to add to the throne in the central plaza.

Crowley grunts as he rips Eligos’ spine torn from his still writhing body and uses it to lash his limbs together, hog tying him before the throne. “Did you have anything else to say?” Crowley asks, deceptively patient.

Eligos struggles to do anything other than moan.

“Very well then.” The angel blade shines in the dark, pulling every eye towards it. Crowley yanks Eligos upright and shoves the blade, hilt deep, into his skull, waiting out the long flashes of light as Eligos dies.

Holy oil next time, he thinks, jerking the blade free. More impressive, less mess to clean up afterwards. “Anyone else hungry for the throne?” he bellows, making eye contact with the few demons who still surround the plaza.

No response, they all duck their heads and scurry away. Good enough.

They’ll be back eventually, rallying around another demon’s flag, waiting for the shepherd who can lead them back to the glory that was Hell under Lilith and Azazel. In the meantime, he has work that needs to be done.

“Clean this up,” he orders whichever minion is following him around today, hoping for a chance to lick his boots. “Burn the remains, spread the ashes.” Rolling his eyes, Crowley waves his hand vaguely, watching minion 216 scurry to do his bidding.

Stepping between shadows, he reemerges in the off-season hotel he’s been using as a base of operations on Earth. It is much easier to use the time differentiation to his advantage this way. Pouring himself a drink, Crowley relaxes into the armchair by the fireplace and scrolls through his phone.

_> > Call me, asshole_

_> > We’ve got a bead on Cain. Need the thing._

_> > where the fuck are you?_

Finishing his drink, Crowley pours another one before calling Dean back.

“About damn time,” Dean says. “I’ve been calling all freakin’ day.”

“Believe it or not, Squirrel, I do not exist to be at your beck and call. There were some things that required my attention.”

“More important than the fucking father of murder?”

“More than his demented twit of a descendant anyway.” Leaning back in his chair, Crowley admires the play of light through the cut glass and scotch. “You might know him, actually. About yea tall, wears more layers than any reasonable man would, drives around a giant penis of a car?”

“Fuck you, you like my car,” Dean shoots back. “Or you like to fuck in my car.”

“That is neither here nor there.” Sighing, he sets down his glass instead of refilling it again. A third would be too much. “However, I’m listening. What do you want?”

“I need the First Blade. Cain--”

“As I already told you, Cain does not concern me. You however, do, what with the running around unbalancing things and leaving me to clean up your messes.”

“Well, you’ve better get concerned,” Dean snaps. “Because you’re on his list.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard what I said. He’s working his way through families and you’re part of the list.”

“You cannot possibly have done that much genealogy.”

“It’s a lot easier when your son is around, fully capable of rattling off four generations.”

Sitting up straight, Crowley glances at the leather wrapped bundle on the mantle. “You’re certain?”

“Death and taxes.”

Crowley leaves off the reminder that both are barely suggestions to Dean at this point, let alone certainties. “Very well. Minnesota, you said?”

“Yeah, we moved. Amery, Wisconsin.” Dean sounds smug, yet another thing to find a way to get back at him for.

Crowley hangs up, chucking the phone towards the bed before disappearing into the closet. If he’s going to be murdered by Cain himself, well, he wants to at least be wearing a fresh suit.

* * *

“You’ve not spoken to Gavin in several weeks,” Cas points out from the driver’s seat of the Lincoln. “Does he even know Crowley is his father?”

“Details,” Dean shrugs, waving it off. “If they’re not on Cain’s list, they should be. God, can you imagine Crowley’s death count at this point?”

“We have no idea how Cain is prioritizing his list, if Crowley is even on it. Even if he was, there hasn’t been a purge in Hell to indicate he’s making a move in that direction.”

“So I’m an asshole, nothing new there.” Taking a swig off his flask, Dean watches the house lights through the trees that separate it from the road. “Really, Cain moving downstairs would be the best outcome for all of this. He cleans house, a bunch of demons die without us having to explain away dead bodies…”

“One of your closest friends dies, horribly,” Cas says flatly. “You have enough of those you can lose a few, certainly.”

“When did you get to be a smartass?”

“Shortly after I rebelled the first time.” Cas rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You would regret his death the same you would regret mine or Charlie’s.”

Dean sighs and reaches up to press his hand against Cas’s. “Point.”

Crowley knocks on the window a few minutes later, pulling the door open and sliding into the front seat next to Cas. It’s a tight fit, but surprisingly enough, still manageable. “Is there a reason we’re sitting out here in the cold and dark? Surely you boys know the solution to cold cars on December nights.”

“We’re watching the house, Crowley. Not wasting time.”

“And here I was thinking that time with our dear angel was never wasted.”

“It’s not,” Dean says flatly, hoping the dark will hide his flaming ears. “Any ideas on how to get a twelve year old to lay his life on the line for the good of humanity? One that wasn’t raised a hunter, I mean.”

“Actually, yes.” Crowley reaches into his pocket, pulls out a few bags and pouches. “A few pinches of this and that and…”

“Crowley, we’re not sacrificing a child.” Tilting his head, Cas shifts slightly before nodding. “An illusion however…”

They fall into deeply technical chatter, losing Dean within minutes. All he follows is that they’re going to do something and gather something else before telling the kid and his mom to get the hell out of Dodge for a few days.

Dean lets them knock on the door and sweet talk their way inside while he pokes around the barn. He lays out a few surprises in the hay loft, thanking whoever that he doesn’t need to worry about any cows or horses on the ground floor, just some tractors. It won’t be comfortable if he gets thrown through the floor, but he won’t be killing anything on his way down.

Except himself, because _that’s_ a reminder that he needed.

The civilians throw a few bags in the car and leave in a hurry, running away to someplace safe. If there is anywhere safe-- they still aren’t sure how Cain is tracking his victims.

Crowley comes out of the house with a mixing bowl, setting it carefully on the porch steps. He chants something quietly before tossing match into the bowl and waving the smoke towards the barn. A wave of light overtakes the yard and a kid forms out of the smoke, grabbing a basketball and throwing it at the hoop hung off the barn.

Crowley evaluates it for a moment before shrugging and digging into the still smoldering ashes. “It’ll do, I suppose. Not my best work but it doesn’t need to be.”

“Where’s Cas?”

“Not to worry, pet. He’s doing his own thing.”

Frowning, Dean steps deeper into the shadows surrounding the house, keeping an eye on Crowley and the illusion. He doesn’t see Cas at all, but occasionally puffs of mist emerge from the house-- warm and herb-y, it reminds him of bread from the really good bakeries, the ones that actually bake from scratch.

Crowley follows him into the shadows after a few minutes, pulling a leather wrapped bundle from the back of his jacket and pressing it into Dean’s hands. “Do us all a favor and leave it wrapped until he actually shows up. Last thing we need is for you to go on some crazed killing spree.” He pauses, swallowing, and looking far more human than he should. “I want this back.”

Even being this close to the Blade is making Dean’s hands tremble. Nodding, he grits his teeth, forcing himself to set it on a nearby stair. “You’ll have much bigger problems if I can’t give it to you.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow before turning on his heel and walking back to the house.

Cain steps out of a shadow nearly an hour later-- one too small to have concealed him-- takes two more steps and, quick as a snake, plunges his knife into the illusion’s back, angled to slip between ribs and into the kid’s heart.

The illusion dissipates in a puff of smoke.

“Oh, clever,” Cain says. “Very clever. I never expected you to go to witches for help, Dean.”

“Stop this, Cain. You don’t have to do this.” Dean emerges from his own patch of (far more mundane) darkness. “What’s the point in killing kids?”

Cain gestures around with his knife. “Children or not… they’re my descendants. And it’s in their blood, Dean. Same as it’s in yours.”

“Same as _what_ is in mine?” Dean picks up the Blade, still covered in leather, and sneaks a glance at the porch. Crowley is surrounded by spellwork that Dean can’t decipher in a quick glance and Cas leans heavily against the door frame behind him.

“Murder,” Cain says simply. “Not all of them, no. But enough. Too many. I need to clean the planet of my entire murderous tree before I move on.”

“That’s _thousands_ of people,” Dean says, aghast. “How--”

“Millions.” Cain leans against one of the supports for the stairs. In the better light, he looks gaunt and haunted, he’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending. “Humanity will be better off without us and then I can rest. _We_ can rest.”

“Yeah, I tried that dying thing. Didn’t take. Made things worse, actually.”

“And in that time, you revolutionized Hell, Dean. Think about what we could do if we _tried_.”

“Are you… Are you trying to Vader me?” Dean asks incredulously. “Together we’ll rule as father and son across the galaxy? Really?” He barks out a laugh before shaking his head. “No thanks. I’ve got enough on my plate.”

There’s a flash of something inside the barn, enough to distract Cain and pull him inside. It’s another illusion, Dean thinks, but he can’t spare the time to check on Cas and Crowley.

A crash cuts through the night air, metal on wood, followed by an angry yell. Taking a deep breath, Dean tosses a sloppy salute towards the house before shaking the doeskin off the First Blade and grabbing the handle.

Lightning runs though him, setting his veins on fire. The angry, never-ending burn of the Mark spreads up his arm, raging across his body. And he’s angry, angry that he had to pick this shit up again, that Sam’s nowhere to be seen, that Cas and Crowley are cowering on the porch while he goes after Cain.

Screaming in rage, Dean stalks into the barn, skirting the edges of the devil’s trap he painted there earlier. The door closes behind him, hinges squeaking, before the bar drops and locks.

Cain stands in the center, at ease, watching Dean approach. “You think you can do this, boy? Think you can actually kill me?”

The Mark and Blade have stolen Dean’s voice, leaving him with nothing. He doesn’t even try, shaking his head and moving around the circle.

“Or maybe you’re simply at a loss for words. I can help: no, I won’t lay down arms, nor surrender, nor abandon my mission. The _only_ way I will stop is if you kill me.”

Dean nods, once, shoving the Blade into the back of his jeans and drawing his pistol. Silently, he sights along the barrel and, slowly and deliberately, aims a couple rounds into Cain’s knee.

One hits, gouging a chunk of flesh and cloth from just below Cain’s knee. Enough to slow him down, maybe, but not immobilize him. Which is about what he expected. Tossing the pistol to the side and stepping back into the shadows, Dean reverses his circle.

“I promised her,” Cain whispers, “I promised Collette I was done. She always believed the best of me, my angel. And then you and your demon released Abaddon and _ruined_ me.” Cain darts forward, breaking through the trap with ease, and backhands Dean.

Dean flies through the air, landing in a pile against one of the pillars. Cain is on him before he’s completely upright, rushing him with murderous intent. Dean hurriedly steps to the side, pushing Cain off balance as he brushes past.

Growling, Dean pulls the Blade from his back.

Over and over again, they clash together. Dean loses his grip on the First Blade and it goes flying, but Cain ignores it. The hunting knife Cain carries flashes in the overhead light, glittering despite the dust and blood.

Dean’s side aches where Cain scored a deep cut over his hip, blood soaking into the waistband of his jeans. Pressing a hand to the cut, Dean watches the blood soak into his skin. Taking a deep breath, he ignores the pain, letting the Mark soak it up like it soaks up the blood.

Cain chuckles from the other side of the barn, spitting blood onto the flood. “You think you can beat this, Dean? Think you can kill me and stay human? You don’t care about me-- I’m a duty, like those hunts you treasure so much.” Cain stands up straight, stretching. “You’ll live my life in reverse. Your demon will sting, your angel will cut deep, and your brother… killing your brother will destroy you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean struggles to whisper.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Cain shrugs, resuming his ceaseless pacing. Slowly, carefully, Dean edges around the edges of the barn, letting Cain’s anger wash over him.

Cain follows him, darting forward to grab the Blade before Dean can even get close to it. Holding it tightly, Cain shudders.

All Dean can see is blood and death. Cain will destroy him and then the world.

Someone yells from the hay loft.

Dean jumps to the side, grabbing Cain’s wrist as he goes by. A quick jerk and Cain’s fingers spasm but don’t release the Blade. Snatching a knife from his belt, Dean stabs at Cain, catching his upper arm and twisting. Blood spurts out, turning the straw and dirt to mud.

Cain rears back, dropping the Blade and stumbling to the side, away from Dean.

Scooping the Blade up, Dean pins Cain to the ground. Shoving the hunting knife into Cain’s shoulder-- hard enough to jam the tip into his shoulder blade-- he stares into Cain’s eyes, brings the First Blade up, and shoves it into chest, feeling the slight quiver as his heart shreds itself.

Taking a deep breath, Dean pulls the Blade free, shakes some of the blood off before wiping the excess on his arm. The Mark rejoices, the burn abating as Cain’s blood hits it.

The sudden lack of pain is as good as whiskey. Shifting backwards, Dean shoves the Blade into the soft spot under Cain’s jaw, and then cuts his throat. Just to be sure.

The corpse lights up orange and yellow, just like any standard demon, but also a sickly green that reminds Dean of poison dart frogs.

* * *

Castiel tilts his head, watching the light show on the barn floor before taking a deep breath. “Did it work?” he asks quietly, cursing his lack of grace for the thousandth time.

Beside him, Crowley sniffs and pulls his suit jacket to straighten any wrinkles. “I hope so.”

“But you don’t know.”

“No one has ever killed Cain before-- it’s not like there’s lore about it.” Crowley swallows loudly. “I’m far more concerned with what is walking out in Dean’s skin.”

Castiel nods. “The cure--”

“Barely worked the first time, Feathers. And you know it. If he’s a demon again…” Crowley turns to look at him, his eyes bleak. “If Dean’s a demon again, he won’t come back willingly.”

Below them, Dean’s head snaps up unnaturally quick. “Come out and play, little piggies… Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow all your little houses down.”

Castiel inhales sharply. Even in the uncertain light of the barn, Dean’s eyes are completely black. Poison green glows along the veins of his exposed skin, making him look like he belongs in an old cartoon.

“Time to go, Feathers,” Crowley mumbles, grabbing Castiel’s arm and pulling him between shadows.


	42. Chapter 42

‘When you die… you will meet God,’ the billboard proclaims in lurid white against photoshopped flames, glowing in the darkness. Dean snorts, presses harder on the gas pedal, struggling to get more speed out of the shitty sedan. “Fat chance, assholes. Been there, done that,” he mutters to no one.

Stretching his back against the seat, he pulls off first his jacket and then his flannel before reaching for the bottle of whiskey in the footwell. He takes a deep swig, ignoring the cop he blows past, and presses even harder on the gas.

The interstate opens up ahead of him, landscape tinted blue and red by the flashers behind him and he _drives_.

Eventually, the cops get bored and turn off from behind him, leaving him to enjoy the blacktop alone. A few hundred miles later, he pulls off the interstate and into downtown Chicago.

He finds a club almost immediately, pink and yellow lights cutting through the fog while strangers bump and grind on the dance floor to something that can barely be considered music. Sliding his thigh between a stranger’s and grinding against him, Dean watches the crowd.

They’re practically having sex, and it’s meaningless. The dude wanders off for a drink after a couple songs, is replaced by a woman in a leather skirt and a low cut blouse and… nothing. There’s absolutely nothing. Little Dean is about as interested in either of them as he is in sloppy truckers with bad teeth.

All around him, people are grinding against each other in every configuration he’s ever heard of and it’s… boring. A foursome forms a few feet away, hands dipping below waistbands and sliding under skirts in something that should be a wet dream and.. nothing.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, unheard beneath the heavy beat of the music.

Flashing lights, overpriced drinks, sex on legs, the pulse of the beat hiding more than just the lyrics as he slips a hand across the skirt grinding against him. He backs away slightly, just a hairs breath, before pushing her away.

“You don’t have to be rude,” she yells sharply. “If you don’t want to dance with me, fuck off.”

Another guy, more frat-ish than Dean has been in his life, guides her back against him, pushing Dean away roughly. Dean reacts without thought, breaking dude-bro’s nose with a well placed fist.

Just like that, he’s back in his element, throwing punches with abandon, rejoicing as blood fills the air. The fratboys turn on each other in waves, punching brothers instead of Dean, occasionally breaking free of the fray to escape, or drag others in.

The fighting devolves around him, rapidly spilling out of the bar and into the streets, turning from a bar fight into a potential riot.

Dozens, hundreds, of humans, ready to go to town on each other. He can hear one young woman screaming about how she deserved to top bunk in the dorms, and fuck off Becky if you think this is funny, quickly followed by a different, higher pitched, scream of pain.

No idea why this club decided to follow his lead this evening, but he’ll take any entertainment, wherever it comes from. Leaning over the bar, Dean snags a whiskey bottle, draining it into a broken glass before saluting the chaos and tossing it back.

* * *

“It wasn’t there,” Kevin whispers, slowly crumpling to his knees. “I need more time.”

“There _is_ no more time,” his mistress spits. “I need that book, and I need it immediately.”

Swallowing, Kevin allows the compulsion to wash over him. “The Stynes-- I think they stole it, but I couldn’t track them. The Winchesters--”

“The Winchesters,” Rowena interrupts him. “Again. Do they do nothing but interfere?”

Kevin stays silent, watching her pace in front of him.

“The Stynes are _nothing_ compared to that book. But you cannot be expected to negotiate with them.” She goes into a rant about ambitious fools that Kevin mostly ignores. The compulsion still drags at him, makes it hard for him care about anything she doesn’t say to him directly.

He more than half-expects her to magic them to Shreveport somehow, but she directs him to a boring Cadillac, optimized for comfort, and pushes him the driver’s seat.

They drive in silence. Rowena passes the hours pouring over a folio in the backseat, muttering to herself. Eventually, she starts to repeat a few phrases over and over, like she’s trying to commit the words to memory.

Hours later, the house he parks in front of looks like something out of Gone with the Wind. Rowena glances at Kevin in the mirror when he stops.

“Not so under my control after all, are you? No matter, whatever you think you’ll get by playing along isn’t likely.” Climbing out of the car, she goes back to ignoring him.

“Poor little Rowena,” a man calls from the wrap around porch. “Still searching for competent help after all these years?”

Straightening her dress, Rowena smiles pleasantly-- although she can’t hide the hate in her eyes-- and turns to look at the house. “Mr. Styne, I presume.”

“Get off my property. I will give you nothing, witch.”

“There’s that southern hospitality,” Kevin mutters, carefully staying out of the way. “Filled with poison and buckshot.”

“You keep a civil tongue in your head. I don’t keep you to chat.” Rowena’s eyes flash. She gestures sharply and invisible ropes wrap around Kevin. “You should at least hear what I’m offering, Monroe. You’ll never have a chance at a prophet again.”

“I’m willing to discuss your terms.” Monroe waves a hand. “Would you like some tea?”

“Whiskey, please. None of that iced atrocity.” Glancing back, Rowena flicks her fingers and Kevin falls over, lying prone on the grass. “We do, after all, have much to discuss.”

* * *

“He knew it was a possibility, Feathers. Why do you think he wanted us out of the way?”

Castiel glares at Crowley over the rim of his beer bottle. “A possibility, yes, but I don’t think he planned for it to happen.”

“It doesn’t matter what he had planned or didn’t. We need to deal with what did.” Crowley sighs, taking a sip of his own drink. “That riot in Chicago last night--”

“Why would Dean, demonic or not, go to a dance club and start a riot? That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“ _Not like him_ \-- Halo, that’s all he was interested in while demonized. Bad karaoke, worse bars, and pissing off homophobic pricks.” Crowley drops his voice in a bad imitation of Dean. “‘What are they going to do? Kill me?’”

“But he’s still human!” Castiel sighs before shaking his head. “Given the opportunity to please himself instead of those around him…”

“He parties like a frat boy on spring break,” Crowley says, tapping his fingers against his glass. “Even the few times he returned to Hell, he was partying.”

Castiel looks at him, aghast.

“I’m not saying he conquered Dis because the entertainment value of the Crossroads was lacking, but…”

Castiel nods, draining his beer. “I’m afraid you might have lost your throne, your highness.”

“Good,” Crowley snarls viciously. “I only took it because the other options were worse.”

“They might still be.” Castiel sighs, signalling for a refill before slumping in his seat. “A human’s creativity hitched to demonic power could destroy Hell as we know it before turning on the Earth.”

“We’re not dead yet,” Crowley points out, sipping his scotch. “I say we get drunk and work it out later.”

Castiel shrugs. He doesn’t have any better ideas. “Can you feel him? Find out what he’s doing?”

“Not without returning to Hell.”

Somehow, over the past couple of months, they’ve become something like friends. Castiel can’t make him do it, can’t make him risk himself even more.

“It’ll take far more to get you drunk than it will take me,” Castiel admits. “That’s not one of the things I kept when I fell.”

“I’d ask if it was worth it, given all that you lost, but I know the answer.”

“The timing could have been better.” Castiel swallows roughly. “But Heaven no longer wants anything to do with me. I’m free.”

“I wonder what that must be like,” Crowley muses before shaking his head. “But we’re drinking over Dean Winchester today, not impossible choices.”

Over the course of many many beers, they tilt closer together, leaning into each other until the bartender cuts them off. Castiel pries Crowley off his bar stool and they stumble out the door.

* * *

Moving between Earth and Hell is harder when his body is still, technically, alive, but not impossible.

“‘Sup, bitches, I’m home,” Dean says loudly, startling the demons standing at attention in the throne room.

“Sir, we have reports--”

“Don’t care, Wadsworth,” Dean cuts him off, brushing past on his way to the exit. “Other, more entertaining things to do.”

“Sir, really, I must insist…”

Dean twists away from Wadsworth’s outstretched arm, grabbing it and swinging him into the wall. Pressing up against the demon, Dean grins. “I was already in a bad mood, asshole. Thank you for volunteering.”

Wadsworth’s groan is abruptly silenced when Dean snaps his fingers, binding him into silence. Picking him up, Dean hoists him over his shoulder, and heads deeper into the Pit.

Breathing deeply, Dean relaxes as the sounds and scents of Hell surround him. This is what Hell is supposed to be like, not Crowley’s bureaucratic nightmare or whatever it was under Abaddon.

Pinning Wadsworth to the rack, Dean steps back to get a sense of what he’s working with. Then he starts cutting.

Narrow slices at first, just enough to get back into the feel of things, then wider and deeper. Leaning into his craft and slipping into a mindless artistic passion, enjoying himself.

Hours, then days, pass while he works, digging into the demon before him, correcting the errors of those who came before and dragging the whole closer to perfection. Wadsworth tries to scream, the sacs that pass as lungs filling and emptying themselves in reckless desperation.

Weeks later, Dean emerges from his fugue, looking at the ruined demon that occupies the rack. “That was fun and all,” he says cheerfully. “But I’ve got other shit to take care of now.” He pats the demon on the cheek, pushing it back into shape. “You stay right here, I’m sure I’ll have a use for you again later.”

After so long working in the Pit, the plains of Hell are bright, hellfire showing all the imperfections. He wanders around to get a general feel for how things are going-- not that report nonsense, but the only reliable way, actual boots on the ground.

He roots out a small rebellion in Dis, encourages a second one among the witches. The Pit and Crossroads are organized and controlled, leaving only the suicides as a potential problem to his rule.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” a demon says behind him while he stares at his current art piece, wondering if it’d make a good decoration for Crowley’s throne room. It’s too… something… for the throne room here in the Pit. In fact, he should destroy that throne altogether. “Dean Winchester: demon in fact as well as name.”

“Piss off,” Dean mutters, reaching into the splayed open rib cage and rearranging the organs again. Definitely art, but… something about the reds and purples aren’t doing it for him. Green maybe? “Or I’ll throw you up here next.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she says, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. “You need me too badly.”

“Who the fuck--” Dean cuts himself off. “Meg. I should throw you up here on principle alone.”

“But you won’t. You need someone to deal with the bullshit.”

Dean snorts. “Is that what you did? For Luci and then Abaddon? ‘Put up with their bullshit?’”

“Demon,” Meg points out. “Of course that’s not what I did for them. They _deserved_ my loyalty. You--” she scoffs. “You’re just a little boy sitting in their chairs.”

“Fuck off, Meg. I’m busy.”

“Nah.” She does… something… and suddenly he’s putting down his knife and stepping away from his project. “You see, Clarence gave me this nifty present last spring. I don’t think he actually realized what it was, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that _I control it_. I control the ring and that means I control the demons and I control Hell. Not you, not Crowley, and not whatever trumped up little maggot decides to try me next.”

Dean snorts, twisting around to look at her. “One ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them? Find something more original.”

“Where do you think Tolkien got the idea, numb nuts?” She looks him over before shaking her head. “You don’t rule here anymore.”

“And you do? Yeah, no.” Dean snorts before turning back to his art project, picking up another knife from his work bench.

She launches herself at him, knocking Dean to the floor and the knife out of his hand. They wrestle for a few minutes, neither one able to get the upper hand, before he pushes her off him.

It goes on and on, both of them changing forms as often as necessary-- he nearly crushes her under his paws before she twists, cat-like, bounding off the nearby throne and landing on his back.

Dean rolls, smashing her beneath him. She slips out from under him, lashing out with silver tipped claws that burn when they catch flesh.

Dean roars and catches her shoulder with his own claws, allowing the Mark to take over. Mindless, he gives himself up, slashing and roaring, using his greater size against her. She’s too busy to use the ring against him, but too fast for him to beat.

Even with the Mark, Meg simply has more practice fighting-- millennia of practice, clawing her way to her position by guts and wiles and brute strength.

Meg catches his eye with a claw, blinding him. Stumbling backwards, Dean screams and all of the Pit screams with him. Meg pounces again, roaring her own defiance, and pulling him off the dais surrounding his work table.

Half-blind, tired, and bleeding, Dean shakes himself as he pulls himself to his feet. The bear falls away as he regroups, finally pulling the First Blade from the small of his back. The Mark and Blade crash together, surging through him until he can’t feel his hurts anymore or anything else.

Meg parries the first few attacks, watching him warily. He lets her, pulling his punches some, slowing down, faking it to draw her in.

Stumbling backwards again, Dean glances around, catching the eyes of the demons who have appeared to watch and bear witness.

Lightning quick, Meg darts forward while he’s distracted, kicks the Blade from his hand, and follows up with another kick to his chest. Stumbling backwards, Dean throws up his arms, trying to grab one of the pillars, but misses, landing in a heap beneath his art piece.

Meg snatches the Blade up and sits heavily on Dean’s chest-- any further north, she’d be sitting on his face, and while he’s not opposed to that, while she’s kicking his ass is not his kink. Holding the Blade across Dean’s throat, Meg clears her throat and spits. “Here’s what’s going to happen, fucker. You’re going to surrender, and leave. No looking back, no passing go to collect $200… none of it. Leave, or I’ll kill you.”

“You can’t kill me, Meg,” Dean chokes out. “Gotta have the Mark to use the Blade and I’m the only one left.”

“Deano,” she says sweetly, death in her eyes. “Hold this for me?” Dean’s arm comes up without his input, taking control of the Blade and pressing it into his own throat. “My present from Clarence. I can make you do whatever I want.”

The Blade digs in further, far enough that he can feel blood trickling down his neck.

Meg leans back, looking down at him and shakes her head. “What was it I said years ago? ‘The best torturers never get their hands dirty.’ But Dean…” Reaching up, she grabs a knife from his work table before smirking. “Getting your hands dirty is so much _fun_.”

She sets to work, carving something into his chest. Dean can’t move, can’t do anything other than scream against the pressure of the Blade at his throat and the razor sharp edges of Meg’s knife.

Eventually, Meg sits back, wiggling slightly against his hips and smirking. “I hope you like my new artwork-- it’s very you, I think.”

Breathless, Dean tries to buck her off, but she rides his hips easily.

“You see, Dean, I’m tired of letting everyone else run Hell. Chaos and incompetence, too weak to know what needs to be done. So I’m going to do it. Even if I couldn’t beat them, all the demons are willing to join me against you. A _Winchester_. Ruling _Hell_. You see where that falls down.” Shoving the knife deep into his thigh, she pushes herself to her feet. “I’ll see you around, Deanie. Say hi to the little tree topper for me.”

Meg waves her hand and Dean spins between shadows before getting spit out on a gravel road.

He lays still for a moment, sand and gravel pressing into his skin and curses. Slowly, he gets to his feet, looking across the desert landscape that surrounds him. The sand and grit stick to his skin, bringing the sigil carved into his chest into high relief.

Glancing down, Dean tries to read it before shaking his head and brushing the worst of the sand off. It itches and stings, migrating deeper into the open wound. His fingers come away green, the Mark’s poison filling his veins.

Picking a direction, Dean spits into the sand, and starts walking.

* * *

His eyes still closed against the bright light, Castiel flops his arm around, trying to locate the infernal ringing and make it _stop_. It quits without him connecting and then, a heartbeat later, starts ringing again.

“Make it stop or I’ll make _you_ stop,” the lump next to him threatens. “For the love of--”

Swallowing repeatedly, trying to work some moisture into his mouth-- his tongue is stuck to the pillow case, ew-- Castiel pries his eyes open to actually look around. Rolling around, he ends up half off the bed before he finds his phone on the floor next to the bed, half out of his jeans pocket and… is that a condom wrapper?

Ignoring it for the time being, Castiel snatches the phone up. “What?” he demands, wincing at the fresh throbbing in his temples and slight nausea.

“Cas? Everything okay?” Sam asks.

“No,” Castiel mumbles, wiggling back onto the bed. “What do you want?”

“Have-- have you heard from Dean?”

Castiel never thought ice water down the spine was an adequate description for anything, except right now, he’s hungover, ignoring the face on the other pillow, and just realized that Sam has no idea what happened with Dean.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, scrubbing a hand down his face before swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. “He-- Cain…” Huffing, he shakes his head and regrets it as fresh fireworks of pain explode into existence. “Cain is dead. Dean killed him.”

“And then what?” Sam nearly growls. “Where’s my brother, Cas?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “The Mark was in control, we ran before he could turn on us.”

The call ends abruptly. Staring at the phone still in his hands, he jerks when a hand slides up his spine, followed by a Hell-warm body curling around his. He starts to relax into it before realizing what, exactly, he’s wearing. Or the lack thereof.

“Did Moose discover that Squirrel’s run off again?” Crowley asks, rough with sleep.

“I--” Castiel jumps to his feet, pacing around the small motel room, wincing when he faces the open curtains. “Why--”

Crowley looks around the room blankly, no hint of Castiel’s confusion and distress reflected in his face. “We got drunk, angel. Well, you got drunk, it takes a bit more than cheap American beer to knock me on my ass. And then we came back here and well,” he shrugs, gesturing around. “I don’t see any blood or any reason for you to be panicking.”

“And you’re _okay_ with this?”

“Yes, and so were you after you’d sobered up a bit.” Sighing, Crowley tows Castiel back to the bed and pushes him back down. “I have standards, I would never--”

“No, of course not,” Castiel agrees, trying to work some moisture into his dry mouth. “I know.” Now that the initial panic is subsiding, the rest of him is starting to register complaints. “Did we bring my bag in? I can’t-- I need some water.”

A lazy hand waves towards the door, where Castiel’s duffel lies, half the contents strewn across the floor. “You were insistent, something about wanting clean pants.” Crowley sits down next to him. “You’re avoiding what gigantor wanted.”

Castiel shakes his head and, groaning, regrets it immediately. “No, I’m not. You can guess, but in the mean time, I need to--”

Crowley huffs, sprawling back across the bed. “Regretting the night before already, Halo? That’s even faster than I expected.”

“This was a mistake.” Primly, Castiel clambers to his feet, yanks his toiletries from his bag, and disappears into the shower.

Hot water and a toothbrush helps with the worst of the hangover, although he suspects it won’t completely dissipate without coffee and painkillers. At least he can think over the pain, starting the process of figuring out how to get out of the room without Crowley tagging along, finding Dean, apologizing…

Castiel snorts and buries his face in his hands. Dean won’t care about what offenses he may have committed, not until the demon is back under control, probably not until the Mark is off Dean’s arm which isn’t even _possible_. By that point, there will be so many things to apologize for…

“Don’t drown, Feathers,” Crowley calls. “We’ve got a list of shit to do and not much time.”

Twisting off the tap, Castiel snatches a towel from the rack and wraps it around his hips before digging for the painkillers.

There’s a short knock at the door before it cracks open. A pile of clothes pushes through the crack, placed carefully on the counter before the door closes again.

“What list, Crowley?” he asks, yanking the clothes on. “Dean’s--”

“Been expelled from Hell,” Crowley cuts him off. “I knew Meg was planning something but this…”

“How do you know?” Crowley stays quiet, although Castiel can hear him moving around outside the bathroom. “Crowley?”

“Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about,” Crowley says, his voice strained.

Jerking the door open, Castiel emerges from the bathroom with a cloud of steam, beelining towards Crowley’s slumped form by the window. “What’s going on?”

It takes a moment for Crowley to respond, shaking himself and backing away from Castiel. “Hell politics. The kind that normally end with being set on fire or dropped in the Pit until one joins the muck.”

“Another revolution? Led by _who_?”

“I don’t know _that_ , if I did, I’d be down there defending myself instead of riding your ass.” Crowley frowns. “Meg, I assume, but I’m not sure. The number of opponents that could defeat…” He trails off, looking stricken. “Dean.”

“He wouldn’t--” Castiel starts before Crowley pushes himself to his feet and cuts him off.

“No, he wouldn’t. Too much work-- the only domain he enjoyed was the Pit and even that was,” he waves his hand vaguely. “But our power base is combined. If Dean is defeated, it will depose me as well.”

Castiel stares at him. There’s nothing useful to say, and the worry he drank away last night has returned with a vengeance. Turning on his heel, he throws his belongings back into his bag, snatching the keys from the night stand. He doesn’t recognize them, but they got into their room somehow.

Shouldering the bag, he turns pauses at the door. “Figure it out. Then come find me.”

“You can’t just leave me here!”

“You’re a demon, Crowley. You’ll find a way.”

* * *

Rowena didn’t bother to be subtle when she left the Styne mansion, or even try to hide her tracks. Sam follows the path back to her hotel room, rushing the stairs two at a time until he’s at the top floor. Growling, he kicks in the door, pulling his pistol as he ducks into the room.

Rowena, seated in one of the fancy armchairs in the center of the room, raises an eyebrow at the noise before gesturing sharply. Behind him, the door swings shut, ending with the less-than-reassuring thunk of the deadbolt engaging. “Tea?”

“What did you do with Kevin?” Sam grinds out, still holding his gun on her.

“The Stynes have been looking for him, or someone like him, for years,” she says. “I merely assisted in their quest. Now, again, would you like some tea?”

“ _Where’s Kevin?_ ”

Huffing, she gestures again, flinging Sam against the outside wall and pinning him there while she sets down her cup. Her dress sparkles in the late afternoon sun, nearly blinding him. “If you’re going to be rude, you’ll be treated rudely.” Sighing, she walks towards him, tilting her head like she’s trying to figure something out. “You’re not stupid, Samuel. You know the chances of me telling you anything are slim.”

“But greater than zero, and I’ve been paying attention to how Dean interrogates.”

“Ah, yes. Dean, Knight of Hell.” She snorts. The force pinning him to the wall presses harder, enough that Sam can hear the drywall creak under him. Frowning, she turns her back on him to pick up her tea again, taking a long sip.

“Charlie says hi,” he spits out, trying to break her concentration. “Missed you when you didn’t show up for your date.”

“She was a fun young thing. She could be a witch, if she wanted. Not as powerful as me, but better than the demon-dealing whores.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her that, after I cut off your head.”

“No, I don’t think you will.” Slowly, she seats herself again primly, straight backed and legs tucked under the chair. “So now that we know what you won’t be doing, I suspect it is time for me to determine what you _will_ be doing.”

A demanding knock at the door interrupts her. “Ma’am, it’s the manager. I’m afraid there are some… irregularities… we need to discuss.”

“Two birds with one stone then,” Rowena mutters angrily. Leaving Sam pinned, Rowena sets her tea back down with an irritated click and rips open the door from where she’s sitting.

The manager-- average weight and balding, wearing a cheap suit-- stares at them both as he walks in. “Is everything al--”

Rowena shouts in Latin, tossing a small hex bag at the manager. Instinctively, he catches it, shouting when it burns white hot in his hand. He turns to face Sam, eyes turning red as blood vessels burst. With a feral growl, he drops the hex bag and rushes across the room.

Sam flinches away, rolling across the wall as the spell pinning him fails. The manager hits the wall with enough force to break the drywall. His eyes glow red in the fading light as he mindlessly tries to catch Sam.

Sam trips over a wrinkle in the rug, catching himself before he falls, but then the manager tackles him to the ground, ripping at Sam with his hands and nails. He quickly draws blood and goes even more feral when he smells it.

Pushing him off, Sam struggles to get away from the manager, punching and kicking.

The manager bites down, hard, on Sam’s arm, chewing slightly. Blood pours down his arm, mingling with the drywall dust. Snatching his pistol from where it had fallen, Sam bludgeons the manager across the face.

Scrambling to his feet, Sam skips backwards as the manager lurches forward on his belly, wrapping a hand around Sam’s ankle and tries to pull him down again. Horrified, Sam shoots the manager in the head, several times.

Breathing heavily, Sam looks around for Rowena, hoping briefly that she stuck around to watch her handiwork.

She’s gone, only the tea set and the destruction of the room left behind.


	43. Chapter 43

Uncaring hands push him inside, the lock thunks behind him, and Kevin is locked in a small, cramped room. The last of the fog Rowena kept him in subsides as he glances around the room.

Given the scuff marks on the floor and walls, he thinks this was only turned into a cell a few hours ago. An old cot takes up most of one wall with a toilet at the foot. The other three walls are mostly bare cinder block with a narrow window at the top of one.

A huge desk sits in the center, piled high with blank notebooks and a few reference books. And, just make it abundantly clear why he’s here, a fucking godrock placed in the center.

Pushing away from the door, Kevin sits gingerly on the cot to test it before swinging his legs up and laying down. It’s been a long few days and a nap sounds like a good start.

He dozes off and on for a couple of hours before the door slams open. One of the cousin-twins pushes another kid about Kevin’s age inside. “Be useful, Cyrus, until Father decides what to do with you.”

The door slams shut before Kevin can sit up, the deadbolt sliding closed followed by something heavy and metallic being pulled in front of the door.

Cyrus slides down the door as his legs give out, until he’s huddled on the floor in a pile of pathetic sniffling. Not that Kevin was much better the first time he was captured, but he at least got caught by the freaking Leviathan, not some pisspoor white supremacist.

Kevin rolls his eyes, sitting up to get a better look at Cyrus.

A spectacular black eye is blooming across half his face, and the way he’s holding his arm makes Kevin think his wrist is sprained. Beyond that, he looks healthy enough, although a lot less built than his brothers and cousins.

“Shit!” Cyrus scrambles along the wall when he glances up and sees Kevin, backing himself into a corner. “Who are you?”

“Kevin,” he answers. “Current hostage, sometime prophet, often translator. Although hostage implies that I might be released at some point, so…” he shrugs, trying to look unaffected.

“You’re here to translate the tablet?” Cyrus asks excitedly. “I tried for years before--” he cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“I’m not translating anything,” Kevin points out. “A witch sold me to them, but they can’t control me the way she did.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Cyrus doesn’t look convinced. “They have plenty of other methods if you’re not compliant. Fear and pain work as well as spellcraft.”

“Good luck to them.” Kevin huffs, thinking about the months he was under Crowley’s thumb. “Any idea which one that is?”

“There’s more than one?” Cyrus flinches when Kevin turns to look at him. “I told you I tried to translate it. Always thought a larger sample size would help.”

“Not really. Just doubles the headaches.” Kevin starts ticking them off his fingers. “It’s not the demon tablet, and if you’ve had it for years, it’s not the angel one either. Leviathan maybe, Sam said he lost it, but--”

“Father found it when I was a kid, along with a whole cache of other things. Magical things. He claims the Ark of the Covenant was there, but he couldn’t get it out.”

“So… not only does your dad _sound_ like a cliche, he acts like one too. Good to know,” Kevin snips. “He’s just… treating Indiana Jones as an instruction manual.”

“It’s been pointed out.”

They fall silent, staring into space. Eventually, after the sun has dropped below the window, casting the entire room into shadow, the door thunks open, barely wide enough to admit a tray with a couple of sandwiches and a single bottle of water.

The greatest danger, Kevin thinks, is going to be boredom. Cyrus has retreated into a silent ball at the other end of the bed and the tablet is looking more and more inviting just to give him something to do.

He doodles some, starts a short story in Latin-- it sucks, but whatever-- and, when the light through the window is completely gone, settles in to sleep for however long they let him.

* * *

The truck is very much _not_ his preferred model-- huge and boxy, designed decades ago to be a farm truck-- but it runs and is faster than walking through the desert. The (former) driver’s clothes are closer to what he likes, if too big in some areas and too small in others, but they do what he needs them to do too. Function over form, at least for a little while.

Dean just needs to get to civilization, then he can ditch the hayseed’s rough jeans for something with _style_.

Button fly jeans, he thinks, eyes glazing over in the face of miles of desert highway, to make his partner’s eyes go wide with appreciation. A new leather jacket, burnt red or black, to better hide the blood...

Heading east, he squints at the rising sun and tries to remember what he was doing before Cain distracted him. He blows through half of Utah, Arizona and New Mexico, then west Texas before he remembers thanks to a random billboard along the interstate.

The Stynes, who broke into the Bunker and stole from him. Who have been causing problems for the last year.

They’re annoying, and like all annoying things, must be destroyed.

Mind settled, he pushes the old truck to its limits.

* * *

“Where the fuck are you,” Sam demands angrily. “Rowena sold Kevin to the Stynes for something-- probably the codex she’s been after-- and you’re doing what? Fucking around in Michigan?”

Castiel swallows, glancing in the rear view mirror as he speeds south. “Illinois, I think. Trying to find Dean’s trail.”

“So you lost Dean too,” Sam says caustically. “You’re sure doing a bang up job right now, Cas.”

Castiel glares at the phone on the dash, cutting across several lanes of traffic. “We were in the middle of a hunt, Sam. Then Cain and the Mark…” he stumbles to a halt, breathing heavily for a moment. “Cain’s dead and Dean is back under the influence of the Mark. We believe he returned to Hell, but--”

“Crowley’s in on this too? Of course he is.” Sam barks out a laugh. “Anything else you forgot to tell me? The world’s ending again, Lucifer’s on the loose…”

Castiel bites his tongue, doing his best to not let it get to him. Sam’s stressed and worried, and, much like his brother, gets angry. It doesn’t help with the resentment at being treated like a child, but it does make it easier to keep his mouth shut. “As I was saying, I’m trying to find Dean’s trail. However, as he can literally be anywhere on Earth _or_ Hell, tracking him is, by necessity, slow.”

The low fuel light pops on as Sam begins to rant about… something. Castiel ignores him, leaving the phone on the dash and searching for a gas station.

“Cas, are you even listening to me?”

“No. I’ll let you know if I find Dean.” Ending the call, Castiel cuts Sam off, tossing the phone into the backseat where he can ignore it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of something huge and dog-like in the front seat when he finishes fueling the tank. Holding his breath, he holds his hand out. “Juliet?”

She woofs softly, ending with a soft whine that he can’t interpret.

“Alright. Did Crowley send you?”

Silence.

“Can you find Crowley?”

Woof.

“Can you find Dean?”

Uninterpretable whine.

Deciding that means maybe, Castiel sighs and starts the car. “Crowley is the least of my concerns right now. I’m far more worried about Dean.” Sighing again, he pulls away from the pump. “I think it’s time to see what this annex of the Stynes’ contains.”

* * *

He lasts until the next day until the boredom gets to him. Cyrus is useless, more scared with every hour that passes, so Kevin ignores him. If he can get them both out of here, great, otherwise, he’s not going to worry about it.

(It’s a cold calculus that he hates, proving beyond a doubt he’s never going to be normal again, but it’s true all the same. Youngest son of the patriarch? If Monroe wanted Cyrus dead, he would be already.)

The cot isn’t strong enough to support his weight when he tries to use it as a ladder, and the desk is bolted into place. The spiral notebooks are promising for picking the lock, but Kevin wants that to be his last resort-- whatever heavy thing they have across the door might be as hard to move as the desk.

Unable to escape, he settles at the desk and pulls the tablet close. Staring at it gives him the same headache as the others-- he’s reading pages superimposed over each other-- but it doesn’t seem to be as long as the others? The Leviathan and demon tablets were dense blocks of writing, scribbles on top of each other, nearly impossible to read one layer at a time. The angel tablet was a little bit easier, but still layer after layer. This one… three, maybe four layers.

Sighing, he settles in. Headache or not, it’s better than watching Cyrus’s stupid face as he realizes that whatever his dad wants, it’s not likely to be friendly.

Caught up in the tablet, he barely realizes that he’s writing it out despite his resolve to rot instead.

Less coherent than the other tablets too, Kevin realizes as he struggles with it. What narrative there is jumps from topic to topic, sometimes picking up in the middle of a sentence. This isn’t anything Kevin’s even heard of… some dark being split from creation before God even got started.

“What’s it say?” Cyrus breaks in, hours later.

“God had a critic who didn’t particularly like how he was creating things, so he threw a temper tantrum and locked her away before getting down to business,” Kevin says shortly and looking up. Blinking rapidly, he tries to get his eyes to readjust. Reaching up to rub his temples, he grimaces. “And I might need reading glasses if I keep having to deal with this shit.”

Reading between the lines, Metatron thinks God’s (sister? wife?) isn’t as locked away as God claimed, but he doesn’t mention ever asking either. How could he? But something about a link from her to Lucifer tickles Kevin’s memory.

Taking a deep breath, Kevin pushes away the tablet and his translation and moves to the cot, trying to remember. Lucifer, the best and brightest, spread his corruption across Heaven, infecting angels with a darkness that lived in his heart…

So Milton was closer than he knew, and they’re completely screwed. Fuck. Of course they are.

The door unlocking startles him out of his light doze, and he jumps to his feet before he even consciously realizes what’s happening.

Eldon and another one-- they all look alike, Kevin has no idea-- stand in the doorway.

“Cyrus,” Eldon barks. “Father’s decided your punishment. It’s time to join the Harvest, little brother.”

Shaking his head, Cyrus backs himself further into the corner. “I can’t-- won’t…”

“Oh, relax. He’s not asking you to do anything to your precious girlfriend. She’s too weak. He’s got someone else in mind.” Rolling his eyes, Eldon steps into the room, yanking Cyrus to his feet. “Get up, we don’t have time for this.”

Sliding towards the door, Kevin tries duck past the guard. He gets nowhere. The guard snorts, pushing him back inside with one hand. “No,” he says simply. “You stay here, translate the tablet.”

“You can’t hold me here forever,” Kevin protests, more out of habit than because he thinks it’ll do any good.

“You’re right,” Eldon agrees, pulling Cyrus out the door. “But no one’s coming for you either. So you might as well be useful.”

“This thing doesn’t even say anything relevant! It’s just… a drunk’s half-assed memoirs of his greatest fuckups.”

“We traded some very powerful items for you, little prophet. Better start showing some use before we cut our losses.”

Kevin raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “You’re not going to hurt me,” he insists. Cyrus’s warning about control through fear and pain floats to the front of his mind, but he ignores it.

“Keep telling yourself that, rabbit,” Eldon sneers before slamming the door.

The lock engaging feels like a physical blow.

* * *

“Do you have an address for the Styne’s annex?” Cas blurts out as soon as Charlie answers the phone. “Not the house, but the annex they managed to take from the Men of Letters.”

“Oh, I’m peachy, Cas. Thanks for asking. Bit worried about Kevin since he just got sold to god knows what, but I’m just _fine_ ,” she says sarcastically. “How are you?”

“Worried Dean’s a demon and we have no way of stopping him.”

“Oh.” Charlie swallows before pulling up the list of Styne properties. “Uh, give me a moment, my list isn’t organized, and that assumed they have it listed, although they probably do-- you’d need to own it for any decent wards or whatever, right?-- but that doesn’t mean it’s as obvious as a sign that says ‘evil lair here.’”

“Charlie.”

“Give me a second,” she snaps, plotting the addresses on a map. “Believe it or not, this shit doesn’t just magic itself up. Even Hermione took some time.” Narrowing it down to a couple of addresses, she sends them to him. “Pick me up when you get to town. I’m not going to let you charge in there by yourself.”

“No,” Cas starts. “I’m expendable, you’re not.”

“Cas, pick me up, or I’ll have you picked up by the cops the moment your car hits the city limits.”

“You don’t even know what I’m driving!”

“‘78 Lincoln. You dropped off a white SUV near a police station in the suburbs of the Twin Cities. Crowley’s, I assume, although why you were driving his car is up for debate.”

“I-- Dean--”

“Whatever, Cas. That’s your and Dean’s business, maybe Crowley’s. Not mine.” She stays quiet for a moment, weighing what she wants to say next. It really isn’t any of her business, anymore than it was her business when Dean and Cas finally hooked up. But… “If you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen though. Queen of that sort of thing over here.”

Cas sighs and she knows she’s won. “I’m a bit south of Texarkana. I’ll let you know when I’m close.”

Charlie does a quick mental calculation and nods. “I’ll be ready.”

The call ends abruptly, leaving her staring at a blank screen before she shakes herself and starts to get ready. She dumps everything out of her backpack, leaving it spread across the bed, repacking only the bare essentials. Cas calls before she’s had a chance to do more than shove the rest into her duffel.

“The Stynes are human, right?” she asks as she tosses her bags in the backseat of Cas’s car. “Nothing particularly supernatural?”

“As far as we know,” Cas says slowly. “They’ve benefited from some sort of dark deal, but themselves…”

“Good,” Charlie says quickly. “Normal lead will take care of them then. I’m low on specialty ammunition.”

“We’re not going to kill them all--”

“They took Kevin, traded him for some book,” Charlie points out harshly. “I don’t know where Rowena is, but even if I did, killing her would be a pain in the ass. Run of the mill jackasses? I’m taking care of the problem. If we run into any of them. It’s late, after all.”

Cas looks at her when he comes to a stop at the next light and she looks steadily back.

“I’m serious, Cas.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but the light turns green and, after a moment’s hesitation, he drives on.

Her best guess for the annex is an old warehouse a few blocks away from the river. A century old at least, all the neighboring buildings have been either torn down to make room for casinos or converted into loft apartments. This one is unchanged however, still storage space for a list of shell companies.

Cas circles the block a couple of times. A few lights can be seen from the outside, mostly maintenance lights, just enough to show the few interior walls, but it could be different coming at it from the lower floors.

“Stop dithering, Cas,” Charlie says sharply, trying to cover up her unease. “We know as much as we’re going to.”

Nodding, he pulls into the tiny parking lot by the entrance and they climb out.

Before her nerves can get the better of her, Charlie double checks her weapons and approaches the door. “Ready?” she asks over her shoulder.

Cas nods, briefly resting a hand on her shoulder before pulling out his lockpicks. A few seconds of jiggling later, they’re inside. “Stay close,” Cas orders, pushing her behind him. “We don’t know what’s in here.”

Books, and a lot of them, is what Charlie’s nose tells her. All she can smell is dust and leather, with slight hints of mildew. There’s a few off smells, but nothing she hasn’t occasionally discovered in libraries or old buildings.

Bringing up her pistol, she carefully follows Cas’s lead, staying a few paces back and watching the side aisles. Eventually, her eyes adjust to the dim security lights.

The doorway is half-hidden between two lights, in the deepest part of the shadows between them. “Cas?” Charlie whispers, jerking her head to the side, where a brass doorknob gleams dimly. “Doorway. Think it’s worth a shot?”

Nodding stiffly, Cas points her towards the door. “Stay there, I’ll be back.”

The narrow aisle between shelves feels like a blind alley-- there’s no way to see what’s on the other side of the shelves and the central corridor is pitch black at her back.

She’s fully prepared to pick a lock-- fire codes be damned-- but the door pops open when she tries it. The hallway on the other side completely abandons the nineteenth century aesthetic, fluorescent lights illuminating a narrow dingy white corridor following the outer wall of the building. Charlie reaches behind her blindly, grabbing a book off the shelf and using it to prop the door open before sneaking forward.

A half-width spiral staircase-- barely wide enough for one person-- leads up and down through holes in the floor. Charlie thinks about waiting for Cas for a brief moment before she heads down the staircase.

The basement is filled with industrial shelving, each shelf stuffed full with boxes and plastic containers of unidentifiable materials. The entire place looks like the depths of a university library. Study carrels, in tiny chain link closets, line the walls with heavy tables scattered among the shelves throughout the rest of the room. The room is still in use-- a couple of containers left open on study tables while others are stacked nearly to the ceiling in the cages-- which makes Charlie even more wary about ransacking it looking for clues for Kevin’s whereabouts.

Why did they even want Kevin, anyway? It’s not like his prophet bullshit is useful outside of some very specific circumstances. Glaring around the room, Charlie heads towards the pair of rooms in the back with solid walls.

Popping the lock for the first one-- a simple deadbolt-- she pulls the door open blindly, staying behind it until anyone inside has had a chance to escape. The room, when she sticks her head in, is empty except for a toilet and haphazardly stacked cleaning supplies.

“Charlie?” Cas hisses as he clatters down the staircase. “I told you to wait--”

“You’re not the boss,” she calls back. “And this place is empty. Just the nightmare of grad students past and future.”

Pushing a metal box-- way too heavy for its size-- away from the other door, she undoes the deadbolt without thought, pulling the door open.

A heavy book catches her shoulder. Her hand spasms, dropping her gun onto the cheap linoleum floor. “Fuck,” is all she gets out before grabbing her knife with her other hand and dropping into a crouch.

Cas sprints across the room, vaulting over the tables in his way before he abruptly slows to a walk. “Kevin?”

“Cas?” Kevin’s voice wavers slightly. “Thank fuck. I thought--”

Charlie pushes herself back to her feet, shoving the knife back into its sheath and snatching her gun back up. “Thanks for that bruise,” she says. “I needed something or it wouldn’t really be a hunting trip.”

“Shit. Sorry, Charlie,” Kevin says. “I’ll apologize more later, but can we get out of here? Place is creepy as hell at night.”

“Cas?” Charlie raises an eyebrow. “You want anything out of here?”

His forehead creases and Cas looks around the room. “What did they want you for? Anything we need?”

“Right,” Kevin agrees, ducking back into the room and snatching a few things off the desk. “Another fucking tablet-- they’ve had it for years apparently, never able to decipher it.”

“So they got themselves a prophet.”

“Don’t know what they would have done if I hadn’t been able to read it either. Not that they know what this one says. I think.”

“You _think_?” Cas asks.

“They locked another kid in here with me for a few hours. Young, rebellious son apparently and needed somewhere to stash him until Daddy made up his mind for what was going to happen.” Kevin glances around the basement and shivers. “Really, can we get out of here? I’m _thoroughly_ creeped.”

Cas glances around before nodding, leading the way out of the basement. Charlie follows blindly, trying to figure out what has Kevin flipping out before she decides to ask. “So what’s up with the horror movie reaction?”

“You don’t hear that?” Kevin asks, gesturing around them. “High pitched, eerie whispering? It’s literally out of a horror movie, but…” he trails off. “It hasn’t repeated itself yet and I’ve been alone, and in the dark, for a while now.”

Charlie holds back, listening intently before shaking her head and catching up. “Yeah, I don’t hear anything except us.”

“Which just makes it creepier, thanks.”

Cas turns around, looking at them both when they enter the main room. “That’s… I don’t even know how to quantify how bad that is. Do you think you can lead us towards the whispering?”

Kevin shrugs, glancing back at Charlie before walking boldly along the aisle between the shelves and wall. He leads them across the annex, criss-crossing the room while he narrows in on something only he can hear.

Cas doesn’t seem to find anything too weird about it, but Charlie worries. This is more than she thought she was signing on for. The unease gets worse the longer they search, the higher they go.

Eventually, on the third floor, they find yet another locked cage, books chained to the shelves inside. “It’s in there,” Kevin whispers. “I don’t know which book.”

Charlie peeks over Cas’s shoulder and shrugs. “There’s only about twenty, we could take them all.”

“No!” Cas half yells. “Most of them won’t be of any use. We’d just be tipping them off.”

“Okay… so we won’t do that.” Meeting Cas’s eyes, Charlie nods and lets him rip off the padlock. Stepping inside, she waits a moment for any traps to trigger before starting to check out each book on the shelf.

Kevin and Cas follow her inside, although Kevin stays near the gate.

Charlie finds it on the middle shelf, a gold and iron chain wrapped around the book. At one time, the leather cover might have had the title engraved on it, but now its wrinkled with age and damp, dyed the color of dried blood.

“That one,” Kevin says quietly, over Charlie’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, that’s it.” Shuddering, he backs out of the secured area, twisting around and heading for the stairs as soon as he’s clear of the steel.

Charlie fumbles for the bolt cutters out of her bag, waving Cas off to follow Kevin. “I’ll catch up.”

The chain cuts easily enough, the book sliding into her bag without any problems. Within a few-- very tense-- minutes, all three of them are sliding into Cas’s car and speeding away from the building.

“We should have burned it to the ground,” Kevin mutters from the backseat, between guzzling bottles of water. “Let’s see them try to take over the world when their base is char.”

“If it was me, I would have made copies and digitized the entire place several times over. So all they’d be losing is the building and any artifacts, cursed objects, or whatever else.”

“I am so sick of being a fucking pawn.”

“Then we lose track of them,” Cas says quietly. “The Stynes scatter like the vermin they are, leaving us chasing behind them. Right now, we know who and where they are. Know your enemy, Kevin, and don’t kick the wasp nest until you know where they’ll swarm to.”

Charlie nods, focusing on her phone, trying to navigate them out of the maze of downtown Shreveport, back to her car.

* * *

“You got Kevin out safely?” Sam asks again, throwing the car in park outside the Bunker. “Charlie, you’re sure it's him?”

“Talks like a Kevin, acts like a Kevin, _is a Kevin_ , Sam,” Charlie says testily. “I know I don’t hunt much, but between me and Cas, I think we would have noticed.”

“Yeah, well, Cas didn’t even notice when Dean went missing, _again_ , so…”

“He knew,” she says dismissively. “But there ain’t a lot he can do with Dean’s fucking around being a demon either.”

“Dean’s a _what_?”

Charlie hangs up the phone without another word, probably in half a panic.

* * *

Sam barrels through the Bunker stomping angrily through the hallways and corridors of the Bunker until he finds Cas’s room. “Were you ever going to tell me? Or just let me stew in ignorance?”

Cas’s room is a disaster, books strewn across every surface, half of them open to a random page while the others have various objects-- slips of paper, pens, a fork, a sock-- shoved between pages. A plate with a half-eaten sandwich sits on the side table with a half-full mug balanced precariously half on the sandwich and half on the plate, like the mug got set down without looking or caring where it ended up.

Cas ignores him, bent over a scroll in his lap, a book next to him that he refers back to frequently.

“Cas!”

“You’re right. I should have told you immediately,” Cas says quietly. “Of course, I had no idea at the time it was more than a temporary setback or Dean would immediately start a riot in Chicago or attempt to rule Hell.”

“ _What_?”

“Not anymore,” Cas growls. “It’s unclear what exactly happened. Crowley has been ousted and…” he trails off before shaking his head. “Dean is no longer ruling any part of Hell. The full explanation is… annoying in the way only metaphysics can be.”

Sam yanks out the desk chair, collapsing into it as his anger drains out. “But he’s a demon?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure he survived the battle to control Hell.”

“Alright then.” Closing his eyes briefly, Sam takes a deep breath before he starts piling the books on top of each other. “We’re moving this to the library. I’m still pissed at you, but it can wait.”

Cas nods absently, already reabsorbed by the scroll.

Sam waits a few seconds for any other acknowledgment before heading back to the library.

He’s moved about half of Cas’s shit when the the Bunker’s electricity goes out, leaving only the backup warning lights to bathe the hallways in red. Alarms start blaring and Sam scrambles to reach the controls before lock down traps them in here.

Recklessly, he turns off the demon warding, allowing any demon inside. At worst, he’ll allow some random demon in, and he really doubts that’s who it is. Not with how hidden this place is. No, it’s far more likely to be Dean, come to kill them all.

He’s not sure why, but the last thing Sam expects when he reemerges into the map room is Crowley, looking around like he has any right to be here.

Pulling his gun, he aims it at Crowley’s face. “I told you that the next time I saw you, I’d kill you.”

“Several times,” Crowley says dryly. “Not the time, Moose. We have more important things to worry about.”

“One of these days…”

“Yes, yes, I love you too, Moose. Go fetch the halo for me, will you? We’ve got work to do and you’re just going to be in the way.” Crowley pauses, glances around. “No wonder Dean was so eager to keep me out of here. The number of weapons that must be in here…”

“Shut up, Crowley,” Sam says, already exhausted. “And get out. There’s no way you’ll be helpful-- you want Dean a demon.”

“I really don’t.”

Sam shakes his head. “Bullshit. This is what you wanted. Dean under your thumb and access to the Bunker.”

“Believe what you’d like.” Crowley drops into one of the chairs at the map table, looking at the dials and switches.

“Crowley,” Cas calls from behind him, sounding weird. He drops a stack of books on a table in the library. “When you two are done arguing, we have work to do.”

“Are you kidding me? He’s a demon, Cas, and you want to trust him to help find Dean?”

“Do you have another plan? Even if we find him, we don’t have a way of actually stopping him, so what’s the harm?”

“You’re _trusting_ him. That’s the harm.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley pushes past Sam and towards the library where Cas waits. “Whenever you want to be useful.”


	44. Chapter 44

The old Styne family home burns behind him, sending black smoke high into the winter air as Dean speeds away. There’s no way the cops will get to the house before the fire has done its work, hiding what he did to the Stynes.

Even if the local yahoos do figure it out, he’ll be long gone, in a stolen car, and dead several times over.

The blood coating his hands is dry and starting to flake off before he pulls off the highway somewhere in Mississippi to get cleaned up. Flakes float off his hands and arms, leaving speckles behind on the car seat and his jeans as Dean creakily climbs out of the Jeep and heads into the rest stop.

Despite the hour, a trucker is walking towards the restrooms at the same time, getting to the door a few steps ahead of Dean.

He pauses when he gets a better look at Dean’s stained shirt and jeans, the dried blood splattered across his skin. “Woah, you okay?”

Impatiently, Dean pushes past him. “Fine. Just had a busy night.” Stripping out of his flannel, he pushes it under the running water before shrugging and pulling off his t-shirt too.

“I’d say.” The trucker falls silent, doing his business at the urinal at the end of the row. “You should clean that up-- we’re out of huntin’ season. Don’t want some cop bustin’ ya just because you offed a deer.”

Glancing over, Dean sizes him up-- a bit bigger in the belly, but not too much-- and relaxes into the call of the Mark. Sated by the deaths of all the Stynes, it takes a moment to respond. “Yeah, good call. Last thing I need is the cops getting involved.”

Flipping off the water, he rushes towards the trucker in a burst of speed. Dean catches him off guard, tossing him into the concrete and tile wall. The trucker’s head bangs, hard, against the floor when he bounces back to the floor, knocking him unconscious. Or maybe he’s dead, Dean doesn’t particularly care.

Dean strips the trucker’s clothes off, leaving his boots and underwear. He leaves the man on the bathroom floor, tossing the truck keys into one of the boots, and strolls back out to the Jeep. It’s sloppy, leaving his own clothes in there, potentially leaving a witness, but he hasn’t met a cop he can’t take down yet, and the sooner they realize that, the better for everyone involved.

Driving for a few more hours, Dean feels almost normal-- window cracked open, tunes blaring, listening to the Jeep’s engine rattle-- right up until he yawns for the first time in weeks, the dull grate of his knees and hips as he shifts in the driver’s seat.

That’s alarmingly _not_ normal, not anymore, hasn’t been in ages.

He leaves the Jeep in a Wal-mart parking lot, strolling around to stretch his legs and pick out a new car to steal. He leaves again, destination nowhere, in a generic black Civic, an exact match to at least three others he can see in the lot.

Dean repeats the process a few more times before he finds a roadhouse. Taking a deep breath, he relaxes back into the familiar role. Ignoring the karaoke stage in the corner, he forces himself to flirt with the bartender and wipes the floor with a couple of kids at a game of pool.

First time in weeks, possibly months, since he’s felt like himself. So, of course, it all goes to shit.

“Hey, Dean,” someone calls from down the bar. “Didn’t think I’d see you up this way.”

“Well, hi, Walt,” Dean forces out, picking up his drink and moving to that end of the bar. “Hadn’t heard of you in a while, figured you’d bought the farm.”

Walt takes a nervous sip of his beer, glancing around the bar. “Look, no hard feelings, right? Me and Roy, we were doing what we had to do back then.”

“Sure. What you had to do. A demon’s dirty work, but what you had to do.” Raising an eyebrow, Dean nods. Swallowing the last of his beer, he jerks his head towards the door. “Your other half outside, waiting for me?”

“We’re not--”

“That’s a yes,” Dean barks out a laugh and grins at the bartender. “Just like old times, ain’t it? C’mon Walt, let’s get this show on the road.” Pulling out his wallet, he slaps down a couple of bills and wraps an arm around Walt’s shoulders, pulling him outside. “We’re going to have a chat. You want to call Roy over?”

Walt glances towards a newer truck, backed into a parking spot well away from the bar and lights. Something long and straight gleams in the moonlight, an oily smear on top of the camper shell.

“Aww, so quiet, Walt. And you were always the brains of the outfit.” Dean snorts. “But if you don't want to call him over…” Taking a deep breath, he feels his eyes flick black before he bellows across the lot. “I see you, Roy. And your toy. Go ahead and take the shot-- you wouldn’t be lining it up if you weren’t serious.”

Walt lets out a choked noise beside him.

“Roy!” Dean screams. “Take the shot!”

The first bullet misses, gouging a hole into the cement to Dean’s left. Roughly pushing Walt to the side, Dean plods straight at the truck, not bothering to hide or even duck. Roy shoots a couple more times, increasingly panicked, before he tosses the rifle aside and slides off the camper shell.

“Dean, c’mon. It was years ago. You can’t still be angry.”

“Walt warned you, Roy. _I_ warned you. What would happen. How I would come after you both.” Dean snorts, picks a bullet out of his shoulder and throws it to the side. “So, yeah. You’re gonna get what’s comin’ for ya.”

“What the--” Roy backs away. “What _are_ you?”

“I got carved and broken and turned into something else entirely, Roy. Had nothing to do with you killing me, although that didn’t exactly feel good. Tickled something rotten, down deep inside me.” Jumping forward, Dean grabs Roy’s shirt and tosses him over his shoulder to land at Walt’s terrified feet. Pulling the First Blade from nowhere, he turns around to stare at them-- Roy pushing himself backwards, trying to get away, while Walt just stands there, paralyzed-- and slowly walks across the parking lot. “I’ve got lots of experience now. I know how to spot the ones that belong to the Pit, belong to _me_. There’s something rotten deep inside both of you too.”

Drawn by the gunshots, a crowd is starting to form next to the bar exit. Ignoring them, Dean jerks Walt close, planting a foot in the center of Roy’s chest to pin him to the ground. “This is the part where you beg,” Dean whispers into Walt’s ear. “For your lives, for mercy, for every godforsaken thing you can think of.”

Walt starts wailing at the top of his lungs. There might be actual words in there, might not, but Dean can’t be bothered to listen.

Pushing Walt away with a snort, watching him trip and fall on his ass, Dean drops into a squat over Roy’s prone body. “Anything you want to say?” He trails the Blade along Roy’s cheekbone, grinning as the skin splits with barely any pressure. “Tick tock, you’re on the clock…”

“Oh, God, don’t kill us, please,” Roy sobs. “We’re sorry. Regretted it as soon as we got out of the room.”

“Close,” Dean says. Tilting his head, he draws a matching line along the other cheekbone, deeper, almost to the bone. “But no cigar. Keep going.”

“I don’t--” Roy cuts himself off. “Someone needed to put Sam down, you and Bobby weren’t doing it, so we--”

“Decided that my brother needed to get put down like a dog,” Dean finishes for him, glancing over at Walt, sprawled in the gravel. “There we go. On the say so of what? A few demons and _Gordon_?” Tsking, he leans forward, balancing himself with a hand on Roy’s throat. “Some hunter you are.” He stays there for a moment before backing off, popping to his feet and ignoring Roy’s gasping for air.

Walt slashes at him, weakly, with a knife he pulled from somewhere. Knocking it to the side, Dean pins Walt’s arm down with his boot. “You see, I _was_ going to just kill you, Walt. Not like either of you’ve got much in the way of brains. But now…” A slow grin spreads across Dean’s face as he looks around. “I’ve got an audience and two willing subjects.”

It’s harder on Earth-- Alastair was right about something, who knew-- but harder doesn’t mean less entertaining. Dragging the sad sacks back to their truck, he breaks the lock on the shell and lowers the gate.

He ties their arms together first, so they’re joined together. That line gets pulled taut through a tie off point in the bed while he ties their free arms to the cables connecting the truck gate to the bed. If he had time, he’d push them a bit more, but he’s got a time limit. Reality is so very insistent on blood flow and bleeding and the consequences thereof.

Taking a deep breath, he watches them for a long moment before crouching down between their flailing legs. “I’ve never had much luck with this on Earth, so you boys tell me how it goes, okay? I need to get some practice in.”

He cuts slowly, painfully, using steel when the Blade won’t give him the line weight he’s after. The blood trailing from their mouths runs down their chests, soaking their shirts in more blood, making it harder to see the lines he’s creating. Matching lines, carving feathers and figures into slowly bared skin, avoiding anything that might make them bleed out too quick.

Stepping back, he glances at the work and frowns. “Still too… fleshy.” He’s not sure how to fix that part. Kill them maybe, drag them to the Pit and resume the process there.

“Dean?” Someone calls behind him. “Look, something’s wrong.”

The fleshy bits are in the way and it can’t be displayed properly. Even the underlying bones are wrong, not designed for flight.

He’ll need to start over entirely when he gets them to the Pit. Pulling the Blade from where it’s sheathed in Roy’s thigh, Dean cuts both their throats in a single brief motion. The spray feels cool against his face before he reaches up to wipe it away.

A heavy net falls over him, burning where it touches skin.

Screaming hoarsely, he tries to push it off, succeeding only in tangling it more firmly around him. A whiskey deep voice starts reciting something on the far side of the truck. A second voice joins in a few beats later, deepening the chant as the spell pulls its hooks tight.

Dean roars, tossing his head back and falling to his knees. The net _burns_ , eating into his skin like acid and digging in, bright lines of fire across his entire body.

Someone throws holy water on him, followed by salt. Whiskey voice-- Cas, it occurs to him-- ducks in close with a syringe, shoving it deep into his arm. Holy water and sanctified blood-- fire in his veins, overwhelming him with warring impulses.

It takes a few seconds, but eventually, still screaming, he loses consciousness.

* * *

“Dammit Squirrel, why’d you have to go and do this?” Crowley asks the heap of unconscious hunter, glancing around the empty parking lot. “Didn’t you have less bloody options?”

“The Mark was too strong for him to resist,” Cas says testily, tightening the spelled handcuffs.

Crowley shakes his head. “He wasn’t resisting anything. Too far gone to even think about it.”

“He’s not completely gone.”

“He _likes_ the disease, Halo. Part of him--”

Dean groans at his feet, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings again.

Dropping into a crouch, Crowley helps Cas hogtie Dean so he can’t escape. Lifting him up, they quickly move him into the devil’s trap painted in the pimpmobile’s trunk, tossing him inside and slamming the lid.

Leaning heavily against the trunk, Cas looks across the parking lot, exhaustion pulling at every inch of him. “How do we stop him? We can’t keep doing this.”

“Removing the Mark has never been done before, but surely in that molding pile of books, there’s an answer. Isn’t that the trite answer you always reassure yourselves with?”

“I’m not sure this time,” Cas says bleakly. “This is… Perhaps if I still had my grace, I could cleanse it from Dean’s soul, wash it away like the stain it is. But as it is?” He shrugs.

Being the only one with anything approaching a healthy view of life has made Crowley soft. Reaching over, he pulls Cas tight against him, wrapping his arms around him in a hug. “Why am I the only one who doesn’t underestimate the denim wrapped nightmare?”

The trunk behind them starts howling, cursing and threatening to commit unspeakable acts with Crowley and Cas’s heads. Snorting as he pulls away, Crowley pats the trunk loudly as he moves to the passenger side. “Yes, Squirrel. We hear you.”

Sam joins them after a few minutes, running a hand through his hair and loosening his tie even as he climbs into the backseat. “Any problems?”

“The hunters are dead,” Cas says. “But other than that, no.”

“No great loss there,” Sam says coldly. Looking over the mutilated bodies-- Crowley’s certain Dean was trying to create more wall hangings for the Crossroads, like a particularly bloodthirsty cat-- he shrugs. “You two go back to the Bunker, I’ll take care of them, meet you back there.” Sighing, he presses the demon killing knife into Crowley’s hand. “In case you need it.”

“No need.” Crowley waves Sam off. “Go put your brother’s toys away. We’ll get him back.”

Sam meets Cas’s eyes for a long moment before nodding and fading into the darkness.

* * *

Even hogtied, dragging Dean to the dungeon is exhausting. The Bunker fights Castiel every step, trying to push them back out, rejecting the poison he’s trying to bring in. After five minutes of it, he roughly pushes Dean into Crowley’s chest with a snarled, “Hold him.”

Taking a few steps down the hall, Castiel lays his hand against the wall, trying to project peace and happiness, hoping that whatever constitutes the Bunker’s consciousness can understand him, but nothing changes. The floors can move silently, but… Taking a few quick steps forward, he recognizes the hallway outside the garage where they parked.

“Dammit,” he mutters in frustration. “The wards are down, but--”

“Bleed on it, Feathers.”

“What?”

“The intentional wards are down, yes. But there’s something else in here, you know that.”

“Yes… the question is how do you?”

“I’m quick,” Crowley smirks, tightening his grip on Dean’s arm when he tries to twist away. “And motivated to learn everything I can about a place that might serve as a prison.”

Glaring, Castiel pulls out his pocket knife and sketches a shallow cut across his hand and presses it against the wall. The tile soaks up the blood, leaving only a pale smudge behind, and suddenly the hallway in front of him curves gradually to the right instead of the left. The doors on either side disappear as they hurry forward, leading to the dungeon.

“Cozy,” Crowley murmurs when Castiel pulls open the shelves that hide the room. “Traps and chains and cuffs, oh my.” Pushing Dean forward, he barely stops him from falling and smashing his head on the concrete. “Best let you get him settled, Feathers. I assume that’s active.” Crowley nods at the devil’s trap a couple inches in front of them.

“It’s the best option,” Castiel responds. “Of course it’s active, the chances--”

“You idiots do realize I can hear every word you say, right?” Dean breaks in. “No earmuffs, no blindfold… didn’t even gag me. I’m starting to wonder if you even have a plan.”

Closing his eyes, Castiel swallows harshly before whirling Dean into the circle.

Dean screams like a wild animal, high pitched and painful.

He doesn’t bother uncuffing Dean’s hands or feet, tying Dean to the chair with rope and zip ties on top of the cuffs. Blood trickles down one arm, where Dean’d gotten caught on something. It’s red, for the moment, but Castiel worries about the hint of green at the edge of the cut.

Stepping out of the devil’s trap and turning to look at Dean-- tied to the chair, helpless, but still growling and threatening-- he worries about a lot of things. “I need some air,” he forces out, hurrying out of the room, barely waiting for Crowley before snapping the lock shut.

Kevin and Charlie are sitting in the library, pouring over every book they can get a hold of, stacking up useless volumes on the floor next to them.

“Any problems?” Charlie asks, barely glancing up. “Rampaging ogre on the loose, Jabba’s sand barge about to crash… anything?”

“Dean’s in the dungeon,” Crowley says before Castiel can force anything out. “Given what we know he’s capable of, and what we had to do just to get him there, I would suggest not approaching.”

“Sure thing,” Kevin snaps. “Demon in the basement, demon in the library, just what I always wanted for Christmas.”

“It’s not a permanent solution,” Castiel admits. “However, as our options appear to be imprisoning Dean or allowing him to rampage across the country--” he snorts. “He’s been cursed. Nothing less.”

“It’s more than that,” Kevin points out, thumping a fist on a notepad. It takes a few seconds for Castiel to recognize the half-illegible scrawl as the notes Kevin had taken while in the Styne’s custody. “It’s called the Mark of Cain because he was the first mortal with it. But it’s also one of Lucifer’s Marks, and possibly even predates the first Fall.” He looks up at Castiel, hopeful.

Shaking his head slowly, Castiel empties a chair and pushes Crowley into it before doing the same. “I… was very young, when the Fall happened. If Lucifer’s grace was darkened by a curse, I wouldn’t know to tell the difference.”

“In the endless days and nights between Creation and Adam’s expulsion from the garden, Lucifer fell with his share of the host,” Crowley recites. “The place he found himself, darkly lit with flames, was pitted and torn by His Fall and those of his compatriots. Blah blah, Lilith, Eve, apples, blah blah…” He trails off for a moment, his brow furrowed. “When Abel’s flocks grew fat, he went to offer thanksgiving and the serpent found him as he prepared. ‘Why do you offer thanks to the one who cast you out of Eden? Keep the fat for yourself, Abel, and offer up the empty skins.’

“Cain presented his offering in ignorance, the first fruits of the new harvest, for the serpent did not approach him. ‘Brother,’ he cried when he saw Abel’s empty offering, ‘where is your offering?’ ‘The serpent ate it,’ Abel said. ‘For I will not give thanksgiving to One who hardened the earth.’” Crowley stumbles to a stop, looking puzzled. “What?”

“Cain killed Abel… because he was worshiping Lucifer?” Charlie says slowly. “That’s what that was, right?”

“That’s where it was leading,” Crowley says. “It was so much fairy tale when I was a wee demon.”

“Until you discovered the Mark could be transferred,” Kevin says flatly. “That Abaddon could only be killed by someone with the Mark.”

Crowley shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Abaddon wasn’t particularly sane _before_ she went up against angels and lost, although she tended to… aim smaller. Consumption and chaos, you know the sort.”

“The campaign to return her to Hell when she wiped out the Men of Letters,” Castiel starts. “It was the first time in centuries angels entered Hell. The paths I discovered then are the only reason I was able to raise Sam from the Cage.”

“That’s a bunch of history we should have found months ago,” Charlie points out. “But it doesn’t tell us how to get the stupid thing of Dean’s arm.”

“Was there anything else on that tablet?” Sam asks from the doorway. He… doesn’t look good. Gray with exhaustion, he’s splattered with dirt and blood, shoes nearly caked with black ash.

“I _think_ that as long as Lucifer’s still alive, getting it off Dean won’t destroy anything important. _Think_.” Kevin shrugs, tapping his notes. “But I have no idea how to do that.

“So in the meantime, we just… do the demon cure again and hope we find something more permanent?” Sam slumps towards the table.

Castiel nods, exhaustion dragging at him. “If we can. I don’t propose we do it immediately, however.”

“Tomorrow,” Charlie huffs, looking over them all. “The only one of us who doesn’t look like bantha dung is Crowley, and I’m guessing that’s skin deep only. I’ll take first shift watching Dean. Sam, Cas, get cleaned up and some sleep. Kevin, get some rest if you can, I’ll wake you for second shift.” Standing up, she heads towards the kitchen, coffee mug in hand.

Stepping out of Kevin and Sam’s way as they beeline towards the showers, Castiel meets Crowley’s eyes and jerks his head towards one of the alcoves. “Can you do this?” he asks when they’re out of earshot. “If there’s something wrong--”

“You mean besides losing my throne due to Dean’s impulsiveness? Being locked in here with you lot, suspicious side-eyes and glares all around without even a decent scotch to make it worth it?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t get your feathers twisted.” Crowley turns on his heel and disappears down one of the side passages. “I can do anything.”

Frowning, Castiel watches him go before seeking his own bed.

* * *

He tried to start shit with Charlie, but she ignored him, pointedly turning up the volume on her headphones and settling down with her tablet in a folding chair. Dean can’t tell if she’s working on something or dicking around, but she effectively ignores him. Kevin is easier to knock off balance, but eventually, Kevin too figures out a way to ignore him.

Opening the doors, Cas glances in briefly before nodding to someone Dean can’t see. “Hello, Dean.”

“Bite me, Cas,” he shoots back cheerfully. “Did you want something or just to stand around and gloat?”

“We’re here to help you, Dean. The Mark has taken control, you need to take it back.”

“The Mark ain’t done shit I didn’t already want,” Dean spits out. “You like to pretend that I’m still your Righteous Man, but let's be real. That stopped as soon as Lilith kicked my ass to Hell and back. If it was ever true.”

Cas stiffens, like Dean’s saying something new, something they’ve not avoided for years. “Dean--”

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Dean cuts him off. “My left ass cheek is itching something awful and I want a stretch. And a fuck, but I’ll get there. Are we doing blood again?” He smacks his lips. “Great aftertaste, by the way. I wonder if I can tell which of you suckers it came from?”

Cas grunts, stepping beyond the shelves that form the front wall of his prison and disappearing from view.

Sam appears a few seconds later, fast enough that he was hiding out of sight. He doesn’t say anything, just jams the needle into Dean’s neck and shuffling backwards.

“Mmm, fresh. Direct from the tap there, Sammy? How sure are you that you’re not just gonna turn me into another _thing_ , just like you? All that demon blood--”

“Shut up,” Sam snaps before starting to rattle off the now familiar Latin.

Dean waits for it to take effect, but… nothing. “I don’t think it worked. You’re a monster, I’m a monster, we’ll all be monsters together. Except Crowley, but then, he’s just a mutated ghost with baggage.”

“Cas? Crowley?” Sam asks. “Ideas?”

“He’s not a demon,” Crowley points out, coming into view. He looks Dean up and down before scoffing. “He’s been acting like it, but if the cure isn’t working...”

“It’s not,” Dean sneers, feeling his eyes flick black. “Maybe if you shoot me up with _human_ blood, or holy water, you’ll get somewhere. Or maybe God hasn’t forgiven Sam. I haven’t.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Sure I do, Sammy. I’ve been babysitting you my whole life, lettin’ you weigh me down.” Dean snorts. “Trapped.”

Crowley steps in front of the other two, protecting them. “Squirrel--”

“And you,” Dean scoffs. “You’re barely a demon at all. No wonder you lost Hell, you’re practically human! Shooting up, edging ever closer to that line... if you want to be human so bad, _do it_.”

“And leave you to destroy everything I’ve built? I think not.”

Sam starts to say something, but Cas lays a hand on his arm and shakes his head. They retreat, closing the doors behind them, whispering worriedly.

“It’s already destroyed,” Dean yells, too late. Scoffing, he leans back in his chair, listening to them freak out and pretend he’s salvageable. He’s not, never has been, and he’s not sure what part of the last year made them think he was.

Twisting slightly in his restraints, Dean tries to relax. It’d be easier if his hands weren’t in a ball in the center of his back, but he can do it. “Just kill me already,” he barks. “Hell, I’ll give you the fucking Mark so you can!”

Someone-- Sam, probably-- chokes and hurriedly exits. Good.

The other two follow him, shutting off the lights as they go, and leaving Dean in darkness.

* * *

“What do you think?” Sam pushes his hand through his hair. “Is he faking?”

Cas looks haunted, but shakes his head. “Not in the way you mean, not about the cure.”

“So the cure isn’t working, and he’s lying about something else? Great. Just what we need.” Sam sighs, looking down the hallway. “Right now, he could think he was Voldemort, running around killing people, and it’d still be unimportant compared to _fixing my brother_.”

“You’re not the only one with something on the line here, Moose,” Crowley snaps. “Hell can go hang for all I care, but the current ruler isn’t going to be content with just running Dean and I out on a rail forever.”

“Who is the current ruler?” Cas asks, frowning.

“Your ex,” Crowley snarks. “Apparently Meg decided she was done with the rat race.”

“Which is neither here nor there,” Sam cuts off the bickering before they can get started. “Dean. Curing the Mark, or at least getting him back into his right mind.”

“I’ll go… check with the others,” Crowley mutters. “See if they want to donate some ‘pure’ human blood to the cause.” He disappears down the hallway, faster than should be possible.

“What’s he hiding?” Sam demands. “Can it help with Dean?”

“Many things, I’m sure.” Cas mirrors Sam, leaning against the wall, letting it support him. “He was the King of Hell, after all. But no, if it could fix Dean, he would tell us.”

“When did the two of you get all buddy buddy anyway? I thought you hated each other.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Holy shit, is Cas blushing? “You _slept_ with him? What the fuck, Cas? The goddamned King of Hell?”

“It’s not like I expected to wake up again,” Cas snaps. “Dean killed Cain and then started hunting us.”

“Better check that off the bucket list, yeah, sure. I _completely_ see how those two things are related.”

“Sam--”

“I mean, you can’t be fucked to let the rest of us know things have gone tits up, but there’s enough time to fuck Crowley. Gotta say, Meg, Dean, Crowley… you’re setting up quite the collection. Do we need to get you back to Hell, let you take a shot at Lucifer? Or is he too angelic for you?”

“Woah, Sam! Uncalled for,” Charlie cuts in, pushing between them. “Last I checked, using your exes as a weapon was a dick move.”

“Like no one’s ever thrown Ruby in my face.”

“Two wrongs, rights, et cetera.” Biting her lip, Charlie shoos him away. “Also, Cas isn’t Dean. Get out of here. Come back when you’re not being a prick for the sake of it.”

Snorting, Sam stomps off down the hallway, aiming for either the gym or the shooting range, he doesn’t care which at this point. He just needs to let off some steam before he blows up.

The shooting range doesn’t help, despite spending nearly an hour obliterating increasingly tattered targets. Huffing, Sam decides to go on a run before he slugs Cas or Crowley in the face.

“Sam, great. I need another pair of eyes,” Kevin blurts out, rubbing his temples as Sam passes through the library.

Gritting his teeth, Sam swallows back his irritation. “What’d you find?”

“Either nothing, the wrong thing, or the solution to all our problems.”

“That’s a pretty wide range, Kev.”

“You try reading six different languages in a four hour period, only two of which you actually speak. I’ve already had Cas and Crowley double check my translations, but then they went to help with Dean and--” He pauses, looking around blankly. “I don’t know where they are actually, that was a while ago. And you’re here, so...”

“Yeah, I’ve not seen them in a while.” Taking a deep breath, Sam tries to push away all his irritation and worry. “What’d you find?”

“I’m pulling from like, eight different sources here, but…” Kevin pushes a pile of papers towards Sam and moves around the table so he can point at things. “The Mark is a curse, right? Sourced from the ultimate dark of God’s sister/wife, who destroyed the universe as fast as God created it until he finally locked her away, creating the Archangels to act as the lock. Well, Lucifer. The Mark is a continuation of that chaos-destruction. Which means we need something ordered-creation to neutralize it. Basic… everything, right?”

Stealing an abandoned coffee cup, Sam takes a swig and nods. “I’m following you.” He shudders at the coffee-- stone cold, stale, and well whiskey’d-- before pushing himself away from the table. “So what fills that niche?”

“I… don’t know. Not right now. I’ve got a couple of things I’m looking at, but--”

“Take a break, at least long enough to shower. I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee and check in when I get back from my run.”

The coffee maker already has a fresh pot set up when he gets back to the Bunker so all he has to do is press the button and disappear into the bathroom. Heading down the hallway, he shouts, “I’m back,” before grabbing clean clothes.

The others have gathered in the library by the time he reemerges, tightly holding mugs of coffee or beer bottles-- Crowley has a tumbler of scotch, because _of course_ he does-- and glaring at the piles of books covering the tables and floor.

Sam waves awkwardly, ducking into the kitchen for a beer. Everyone follows him, sliding into the kitchen behind him and claiming seats at the table. Kevin looks better-- not rested, but showered and in clean clothes. Charlie looks about the same, Cas and Crowley are exhausted and ready to sleep for a million years, but at this point, that’s all of them.

“Kevin, did you come up with anything new?” Sam starts.

“You mean, did I magically figure out what the antithesis of chaos and destruction is and what we can use? No.”

Biting his lip, Cas leans forward, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle. “Can I see your notes?”

Shrugging, Kevin shoves the translation over before looking around. “If anyone has any good ideas, I’d love to hear them, if nothing else, so I can get some freaking sleep.”

“Even once we figure out what it is, how are we supposed to apply it? Make up a ritual? Rub it in like lotion?” Charlie asks, tapping a pen against her beer bottle.

“This, lady and gentlemen, is why you keep a witch on hand,” Crowley points out. “Just knowing the ingredients gets you a long way.”

“Yeah, well, the last one of those kinda screwed us over,” Charlie snaps. “Traded Kevin for a book and tossed Sam around like a rag doll.”

“You’re the one who decided to trust Rowena,” Kevin mumbles. “And paid the price.”

Crowley inhales sharply, the first sign of shock Sam’s ever seen on his face quickly hidden. “She’s good, but I’m better. Figure out what we need and I’ll figure out how to make it work.”

“Cas?” Sam turns to look at him, bent over Kevin’s scribbles. “Got anything?”

“Um, yes.” Cas winces, looking up briefly and draining his beer. “The secondary ingredients are… not unimportant, but easier to find.” He scribbles a list in the margins of the paper, frowning, and then pushes it back towards Sam.

“And the primary ingredient?”

“I’ll be back with the last ingredient in a few hours.” Pushing away from the table, Cas rests his hand on Sam’s shoulder briefly, squeezing. “There are other options if this doesn’t work, but this is the one with the least terrible side effects.”

“What does that mean?”

Cas ignores him, strolling out of the kitchen and down the hall.

Frowning after him, Sam shakes his head. “Alright. I guess. Charlie, can you and Crowley work together and get whatever other ingredients in hand. Kev and I--”

“Will take a gorram _nap_ ,” Charlie cuts him off. “Neither of you have slept.” She punctuates her order with a sharp slap of her hand on the table, enough to startle Sam into flinching. “See?”

“Awesome,” Sam mutters. “Nap time it is.”


	45. Chapter 45

Winter clouds, heavy with snow and ice, hide the sky as Castiel drives north. It’s late, probably later than he thinks-- the clock in his car blinks 12:00-- and the oncoming storm has pushed most other drivers off the roads.

He’s alone.

Well, he’s been alone since he stormed out of the Bunker kitchen, the sudden realization of what was needed to cure Dean. The lack of other cars, other headlights shining through the snowy darkness is just very pointed symbolism.

Swallowing, Castiel looks away from the road long enough to dial Jody, dropping the phone on the dash.

“This is Jody.” She yawns, loudly, mumbling an apology.

“Hello, Jody. I… need the package you’re holding for me.”

“Cas?” her voice sharpens, sleep dropping away. “What’s going on? I thought you were working that missing persons case.”

“I was.” Frowning, he glances at the phone balanced on the dash. “The mass grave site in Minnesota.”

“No shit? Congrats on solving that one.”

“It… Cain’s dead.”

“Cain as in Cain-and-Abel Cain?”

“Yes, but since--”

“And you suddenly need your grace back. Wanna tell me what’s going on, Cas? Because it’s sounding an awful lot like you need your grace to drag Cain up to Heaven.”

“No!” Castiel blurts out. “It’s for Dean.”

“Start talking, Castiel,” she says flatly.

“He’s alive. Mostly.” He sighs, slowing as he passes a city limits sign. It takes a few minutes to catch Jody up on the current situation, only her occasional agreement or hum to tell him that the call hasn’t dropped. “I need my grace.”

“That sounds awfully permanent, Cas.”

“There aren’t any other options.”

“There are _always_ other options. If you’re not seeing them, you’re not thinking straight.”

“Oh, yes. The power of positive thinking. I suppose we could use the soul of a saint. It meets all the same requirements-- pure and powerful, probably capable of burning the Mark away from Dean’s soul.” He snorts. “Of course, it will require breaking into Heaven and stealing one, but that’s done easily enough. A reaper, a deal, prayer…

“You want to pull a _saint_ out of _Heaven_?”

“No. I don’t. Although a few of them are probably quite bored by now,” he says with a sigh. “Regardless, as this will likely destroy them, they’re better off in their heavens.”

“Alright,” Jody sighs. “You win. I’ll get to the bank in the morning.”

“I’ll be there in…” he tries to catch a glimpse of a mile marker. “A few hours?” he guesses.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” He can hear the frown in her voice. “You know where the spare key is. Try not to wake up Alex, she’s got practicals in the morning.”

“Jody, I--” she hangs up, dropping the car into silence. “Apologize for waking you up,” he finishes, flipping the phone face down so it doesn’t glare up into the windshield. He probably should have led with the apology.

Barely an hour later, he parks on the street in front of Jody’s house, glancing around out of habit. The light in Alex’s room is still on, either still studying or she fell asleep with it on. The rest of the house looks… normal, serene. Reaching behind him, he grabs his bag and stumbles through the snow to the side door.

* * *

Crowley frowns as he looks at Cas’s list of ingredients again, eyes settling on the most common before he shakes his head. No need to go overly complicated.

“Crowley.” Kevin yawns, wandering into the library, nearly tripping over a stack of books. “Whatcha got cooking?”

“Inventing spellwork is not my forte,” Crowley snaps. “It is Mother’s. If you wanted someone fast, you should have grabbed her.” Too late, he snaps his mouth closed, cursing the last dose of human blood stolen from the supply Moose left outside the dungeon last night.

“We… didn’t know that was an option?” Kevin says slowly. “ _Is_ that an option?”

Crowley sneers and bends back over his work, adjusting the phrasing of the incantation slightly-- ordering, not requesting. He reads over it a couple more times before pushing it away and rubbing his temples.

He’s a demon, for fuck’s sake. Shouldn’t he be beyond stress headaches?

Sam thumps a cup of coffee at his elbow, reaching over to snag the spell. “We knew your mother was a witch, by the way,” he starts. “Gavin told us a lot about your family. Well, the parts he stayed in contact with, anyway.”

Snorting, Crowley leans back in his chair. “Little bastard would lie through his teeth about me.”

“Dean… didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what, Giagantor? Your brother and I, we’ve shared a lot over the last year.”

“Abaddon did some sort of time travel thing,” Sam says, frowning deeply. “Grabbed Gavin, dropped him… pretty much on our front porch. To act as a distraction, we think. But you weren’t interested in meeting up with him and, well, not like we didn’t have other things to worry about at the time.”

“Gavin’s _alive_?” Crowley reaches up to rub his temples again. “Squirrel said something… but it was months ago. I assumed you tossed him back to where ever you got him.”

“So, no. Dean didn’t tell you. At all.” Sam takes a long drink of his coffee before shaking his head. “Gavin’s alive, had some pretty choice things to say about you, gotta say. Still trying to work out the causality, but…” He shrugs. “There’s been other priorities.”

“Well, for one thing, the ghost Bobby summoned? Not Gavin. My Gavin anyway. Snatched him right from the jaws of death, Abaddon did.” Crowley huffs.

“That explains… something.” Tapping the spell, Sam starts to stand before dropping back down. “Anyway, your mother, the witch. She still around, think she’d be willing to help us out?”

“No,” Crowley grinds out. “Even if she was, I wouldn’t trust her to do it.”

“Great. Just great.”

“I never said I couldn’t do it. Just that it wasn’t going to be fast.” Grabbing the notebook, he settles back down with a huff. “Don’t you have better things to do? Like baiting your brother, the demon?”

“Okay,” Sam says quietly. “We can get Gavin here, if you want.”

“Why? Self-righteous prat, never liked me and I never liked him.”

Sam nods, once, and disappears down the hall.

Snorting, Crowley looks back over the spell again before tossing it aside. Time for a break, of some kind or another. The remaining parts will depend on what exactly Castiel drags back as their beacon of light and hope or whatever such shit.

* * *

“I will never understand what Dean sees in him,” Sam huffs, dropping into one of seats at the kitchen table. “Smarmy prick.”

“You had a run in with our favorite demon this morning then.” Charlie checks her trackers one last time before pulling up her side project. “Get anything useful?”

“His mom’s a witch, which we knew, but he doesn’t want her help.” He thinks for a moment. “He’s playing things even closer to the vest than normal. I’m not sure he can see his own damn cards.”

“Well, that sounds familiar,” Charlie cracks, shaking her head and grabbing another mug of coffee. “If we’re in a holding pattern, come take a look at this.”

Sam blinks a couple times, but she can’t tell if they’re good blinks or bad.

“Uh, Sam? Gotta tell me something, dude. Silence is not as reassuring as you might think.”

“Is this--” he swallows, paging down a bit before scrolling back up. “Is this a database of every monster we’ve ever encountered?”

“And your dad and Bobby. Figured that’d be a good place to start. I’ve got feelers out to a few other hunters too, ones you said you trusted. You said something last winter… wanting to turn this place into hub of some kind? And well, that’s not really happened what with the Stynes and everything else, but a database, where we collate everyone’s knowledge? That sort of thing is my bread and butter, ya know?”

“I could kiss you right now,” Sam blurts out.

“You and everyone else,” Charlie says smugly. “Speaking of, that hunter who needed a new partner? I told her you’d be in contact once the Dean situation was dealt with.”

Sam’s face falls. “ _The Dean situation_. Yeah. I guess… hopefully that will be done in the next few days. One way or another. Any idea what she’s expecting? And how did you get involved in that anyway?”

“You’ve been busy and I’ve been handling more than you think. How’s your ASL?” Charlie asks, flipping the computer closed. “I know you and Dean are Han and Chewie and all, but--”

“Pretty sure Dean will object to you calling him a walking carpet.”

“I look forward to it. Anyway, Eileen’s been doing pretty good on her own, but could use a hearing partner for some of the legwork. Told her I would get her set up with someone weeks ago and you’re the best option.”

“And you think I--”

“I think you’re so caught up in the family business that you’ve forgotten that there’s other hunters out there, willing and able to take some of the weight.”

Sam shrugs, waves it off. “Go get some rest. I don’t know what Cas went to grab or when he’ll be back so… holding pattern.”

Charlie nods, packing up her stuff and heading down the hall. Pausing by her room long enough to drop everything off, she looks at the bed before heading further down the hallway.

The dungeon is locked when she gets there, the door pulled shut and a truly ridiculous number of locks across the frame. Undoing them one by one, she tries to screw her courage to the sticking point before giving up and walking in anyway.

“You know, this was a lot easier when you tucked a flask into my bag and told me tattoos are sexy.” She holds her breath, trying not to think about the cruel things he’s already said. Charlie has no illusions. She might be the little sister he never wanted, but she’s not nearly as important as Sam and Cas. Hell, she might not even be as important as Crowley.

Dean’s head jerks up when she turns on the light, a slightly manic grin on his face. “It’s always easier when the bad guys are monsters.”

“Like you?” Grabbing an abandoned chair, she drops into it, staring at Dean intently. “You’re doing a pretty good job at making sure no one looks closely anyway.”

“I am what I am. Just _let me go_ , Charles. It won’t take anything-- a few scratches of your knife, a key--”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Dean?” she demands, glaring at him. “Think I don’t notice that you’re pushing us all away because… fuck if I know. You think we won’t care if you die that way? You’ve certainly got Sam and Cas pissed off.”

“Little orphan Charlie, always fighting the good fight. Sometimes the rebellion does get crushed by the evil emperor.”

“Yeah, you’re not the Emperor, Dean. Or even Darth Vader. _Maybe_ Anakin.”

Dean huffs. “Ani was an obnoxious brat.”

“Who let fear rule his actions. Sam was being jerked around by an angel, Cas was MIA. And here comes Abaddon, queen of destruction. _Of course_ you’re going to jump on that grenade. You’re not a monster, Dean,” she says quietly. “No matter what that curse is turning you into or you think you’ve earned. And even if you were, you can stop being one.”

“Get out,” Dean demands, lunging forward in his restraints. “And fuck off.”

“Good night, Westley. Good work. I’ll see you in the morning.” Snorting, Charlie stands, pushing the chair back where she found it.

She leaves the light on, carefully locking the door behind her. Dean yells something-- undoubtedly cutting and cruel-- muffled into incomprehensibility by the walls. Sighing, she slumps back up the hallway to her room, falling face first into her (shitty) mattress for a while.

* * *

“Cas, I’m not trying to change your mind.” Jody toys with her bagel listlessly before dropping it back on her plate. “But are you sure this is what you want to do? It sounds… final.”

“Either I use it to cleanse the Mark from Dean and live a mortal lifespan, or I reabsorb it, become an angel again, and stand at Dean’s shoulder while he destroys the world.”

“If it doesn’t work--”

Castiel sighs, tapping his fingers on his coffee cup and ignoring his own bagel. “If it fails, I don’t think I’ll live long enough for it to matter.” He frowns, thinking about it. He’s fallen, therefore damnation, but he’s not suitable fodder for the rack and Meg might reject him from Hell entirely.

Jody stares at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “Finish up. The bank opens at eight and I have to go to work after.”

The tellers at the bank stare at him curiously while Jody is in the vault. They smile and whisper, like he’s some kind of freak, only stopping when another customer comes in, wishing Ms. Roxell a good morning.

Finally, Jody emerges, talking with the manager before shaking her hand. She waits until they’re back out to her truck before pulling a small velvet bag out of her pocket and handing it over with a chuckle. “I’m sure gossip will have us running off to Vegas by morning, but can’t be helped.”

“Is there a reason…”

“Small towns exist for gossip, Cas. Sioux Falls isn’t tiny, but it acts like it’s a lot smaller than it is. You’re my age, handsome, and just waited patiently while I pulled jewelry out of the bank. The only way that makes sense is if we’re eloping before Alex realizes.”

“Sheriff Mills,” Castiel says seriously, twisting around to face her on the bench seat of her truck, his face quirking up into a smile. “Will you do me the honor of... never mentioning that to Dean?”

“Not making me feel better about this situation.” Jody chuckles before taking a deep breath. “But yes. Of course.”

“Thank you.”

She drops him back off at the house and his car before rushing to the sheriff station. Watching her go, Castiel takes a deep breath and squeezes the pepper shaker full of grace tightly before heading back south.

“Good, you’re back,” Sam snaps as soon as Castiel arrives. “Will you please talk some sense into Crowley?” Rolling his eyes, he raises his voice. “Even if we had depleted uranium, _we’re not using it_.”

“It’s not hard to get, Moose!” Crowley practically shouts from the library. “And what’s a little radiation between friends?”

“We’re not friends, Crowley,” Sam shouts back. “If you betray us--”

“You’ll stab me, kill me, make me wish I was dead. Love you too, snookums.”

“We don’t actually have any uranium,” Castiel points out. “And I’d rather not take the time to get some.” If they’ve been like this since he left, that would explain the silence from Kevin and Charlie regarding the plan. “I’m going to clean up before we get started.”

“You got it?” Crowley asks eagerly.

“I never lost it. It’s no longer a part of me, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know where it was.”

“For _what_?” Sam cuts in. “You took off like a bat out of Hell, didn’t answer your phone…”

“My grace.” Pulling it from his pocket, Castiel sets the shaker on the library table with a click. It shines in the dim library, blue-white light refracting through the cut glass to fill the whole room. It’s beautiful, but would be more so if he didn’t know what it meant.

Sam gasps quietly from behind him. “That’s… more than Anna had.”

“The container is larger,” Castiel says shortly, closing his eyes. “It will be barely enough. Anna’s would be sufficient of course, if she was alive, or most of the other angels we’ve met. However, I cannot ask--” He breaks off, appalled at the waver in his voice. He swallows tightly. “This isn’t something we can ask of anyone else.”

“There’s at least one I’m willing to hunt down,” Sam says coldly. “Especially if it means we get Dean back.”

“No,” Castiel snaps. “I’ve done enough harm to Heaven, tried and failed to pay penance. We cannot, will not, ask another angel to fall for this.” Sam opens his mouth to argue, but Castiel shakes his head. “No, Sam. Just… no.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he picks up his grace and shoves it back in his pocket. “All that was within me when I fell, stretched and distorted as it was. It will have to be enough.”

“I’ve done more with less,” Crowley points out. “Kevin, be a love, check my calculations for the angles of Saturn?”

“I’m not Hermione, this isn’t Hogwarts, and check it yourself,” Kevin says, not even looking up from the tablet.

“Charming.”

Castiel backs out of the room slowly, letting the bickering wash over him.

There’s no going back after this. Despite sitting with it, alone in his car, for hours, the future lies before him, featureless. It’s possible he’ll give up his grace, cure Dean, and then be kicked out of their lives as useless, a danger to everyone.

Swallowing tightly, Castiel lets his fingers walk lightly over the debris that covers his dresser and desk. Crumpled receipts, spare change, more than a few pens and pocket sized notebooks. Homeless, but not without a home.

“They’re getting set up,” Charlie says behind him, belatedly knocking the door frame. “Said I’d come check up on you.”

“Right, yes.” Rubbing a hand over his face, he realizes his cheeks are wet, that he’s been crying over something that hasn’t even happened yet. “Thank you. I’ll be there in a moment.”

She inhales, like she’s going to say something, but stays silent, just knocking again and walking away. He listens to her footsteps and tries to get himself together.

“Please, Father, let this work,” he whispers, before snatching a washcloth off the dusty pile of laundry.

* * *

The lights flip on with no warning, breaking Dean out of his doze. Harsh whispers carry past the shelves, low enough he can’t hear words. “Didn’t you get the point yesterday?” he calls. “Blood and Latin ain’t gonna cut it anymore.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam orders, pulling the shelves open. “You don’t get a say anymore.”

“Aw, Sammy, I’m hurt.”

“We can’t trust you anymore.” He nods to Charlie and Crowley before walking into the devil’s trap and grabbing Dean’s shoulder harshly, pulling him against the back of the chair. “So while they set up, we’re gonna wait right here.”

“What are you gonna do, Sammy? You can’t cure me. Gotta be a demon for that and I ain’t,” Dean sneers. “You heard Crowley. Gotta die to be a demon and I’m still kicking.”

“Kevin found a different option.” Sam huffs.

“And what’s this one? Hop on one leg, lick a frog, and whisper Enochian love poetry?” He pauses. “I bet Cas can do that one. ‘Hello, Dean. We have work for you. If I can’t tell you again, I’m sorry.’” He frowns for a moment, thinking. “Ever notice how we’re always sorry, Sammy?”

“Dear god, do you ever _shut_ up?” Crowley barks somewhere behind them. “You’re worse than the fuckers in Hell.”

“You like my tongue.”

“I’d like it more if you’d learn when to use it.”

Dean tries to twist around to see what Crowley is doing, but between the restraints and Sam’s grip, he can’t do anything than rock side to side. They’re too calm, composed. Barbs that should send them fleeing, leaving him trapped in darkness, are sliding right off.

Oh, Sam’s willing to bicker with him, and Crowley is always good for a flirt, but they’re keeping things shallow. Not allowing hits to land. Charlie was too composed last night. No Cas, no Kevin, but they’re both easy to push off balance. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Saving you,” Sam snaps. “From yourself since you won’t.”

“I don’t need saving, jackass. Certainly not by you.”

“And again, you don’t get a choice.”

“All done,” Charlie says quietly. “Crowley, can you check me?”

They mumble together for a few minutes, walking around the circle. Eventually, Cas slides into the room, fiddling with something in his pocket. Dean opens his mouth to say something-- those tear-red eyes are a tempting target-- but Crowley gets there before he does.

“About time, Feathers. We’ve been waiting.”

“I apologize,” Cas says, his voice even more gravelly than usual. “I needed some time to prepare.”

“Is Pinocchio going to turn into a puppet again?” Dean asks, trying to cover the fear he won’t admit to. “Life down here in the trenches got too messy, so you’re gonna run away? That’s awesome, good job. Just leave us here.”

“Why do you care?” Charlie snaps, moving to the front of the room. “You’re going to kill us all anyway. At least as an angel, Cas could contain the destruction.”

“Nah, he’d just leave. He’s good at that.” Dean glances at Cas, trying to read his face. It’s mostly expressionless, his eyebrow twitching slightly before smoothing out with a nod.

“I’d be the only one left. You’ve given up fighting the Mark. Eventually it will twist your submission into destruction and murder. Tomorrow, centuries from now… you will murder the world, and become Abaddon and Alastair in one.”

“Take that back,” Dean growls, his fingers tightening around the ropes that bind him. “I--”

Crowley snorts, cutting him off. “Won’t take control of the Pit when some pissant demon annoys you? Won’t start a riot in a busy club because you felt like it? Sure you will, pet. You already have.” Looking around the room, he jerks his head. “Sam, Charlie, out. This isn’t a spectator sport.”

Sam nods, releasing Dean and escorts Charlie ahead of him. “I’ll be waiting outside,” he says pointedly, pulling an angel blade from somewhere. “Scream if you need anything.”

Cas and Crowley nod gravely before pulling the shelves closed, leaving them in the tiny dim room. Without the glare of the overhead light, Dean can see the glow of Cas’s grace through his pocket even before he pulls it out and sets it on the the workbench.

The two of them work in silence, the occasional strike of a match and flare of a candle as they work around the circle.

“Really, guys. What are you doing?” Dean asks, nervously licking his lips. The silence is getting to him-- even when he can see them both, they don’t seem to be communicating. Just moving from location to location, dropping ingredients into a spell bowl and lighting things.

“We’re removing the Mark,” Cas says finally, with one last match scratch before he walks to the workbench. Stripping off his hoodie and boots, he stretches slightly.

Dean can feel his eyes rapidly flicking to black and back, almost distracting him from what Cas said. “If that was possible, don’t you think Cain would have done it?”

“Cain didn’t have as many friends as you do,” Crowley points out, laughing. “Stupidly devoted to keeping you human and the world intact.”

“You want that too,” Cas points out. He steps behind Dean, and the ropes lashing him to the chair loosen slightly. Before Dean can yank himself free, the ties change, dragging his arms to the sides of the chair. Jerking slightly, Dean thinks they’re even tighter.

“Never said I didn’t, Angel. But all of Cain’s friends… well, they were the Knights, weren’t they?” Crowley falls silent behind him, doing something that Dean can’t see. “Alright, bad boy. Drink this.” Crowley shoves a coffee mug full of something wine purple in front of Dean.

Dean twists his head way, pinching his mouth shut and closing his eyes. The mug taps his lips twice before Crowley sighs.

“Alright, if you won’t cooperate--” A hand pinches Dean’s nose closed and another pokes him sharply in the side.

Dean keeps his mouth shut, refusing to drink.

“Cas?” Crowley asks over Dean’s head.

The hand hovering over Dean’s ribs moves, pulls away, before smashing into his gut.

Dean opens his mouth to shout, chokes on the foul liquid poured down his throat. Once the deluge stops, he leans back, gasping. “What the everloving _fuck_?”

Crowley ignores him, mumbling something in a language Dean doesn’t recognize.

Prying his eyes back open, Dean blinks the tears from his eyes and catches Cas’s gaze. “You can’t do this, Cas. It’ll kill me.” Dean swallows rapidly against the rising nausea.

“It won’t,” Crowley says. “Angel, we’ve gone over this--”

“Yes, Crowley, I know,” Cas snaps. Pulling a knife from somewhere, he drops into a crouch and cuts through Dean’s shirt, ripping the fabric away from the Mark.

Dean can feel how inflamed it is, pulsing with his heart beat. The air of the dungeon feels like ice next to it and he tries to cringe away.

“This will hurt. I’d tell you to go to your happy place, but it won’t help.” Digging the point of the knife into Dean’s arm, he drags it down, cutting through the Mark.

Hurt doesn’t even begin to cover it. Dean chokes on his scream, biting his tongue against the acid that washes along his arm for a second before the nausea decides to erupt. Turning to the side, he heaves, spewing thin yellow-green bile across the floor.

Once his mouth is open, he can’t close it again, vomiting out the pain, until he’s reduced to frantic panting and spitting out bile. It gets darker every time, almost olive by the time it stops, coating his tongue with grossness.

Cas stays by his side the entire time, wiping away the ichor leaking from his arm with a damp cloth.

Eventually, Cas looks up, meeting Crowley’s eyes behind him and nods. “I think--”

“Next step it is,” Crowley agrees.

Dean slumps forward, panting. “No,” he moans, trying to work the terrible taste out of his mouth. He can’t think, can’t do anything besides beg. “Stop, just kill me, please… I can’t…” he sobs. He’s not sure what changed, but the acid washing down his skin, burning his arm to the bone--

He’s broken, far more than he realized, more than Cas and Crowley know. He’s become the monster Sam was destined to be. Another bite of fire lights up his nerves and Dean shudders, too weak to even moan. They must have turned down the heat-- he’s _freezing_ , every damp spot on his clothes feels like ice. “I killed--”

“We know, Dean,” Cas whispers, closer than Dean remembers. “It’ll be alright.”

“Cas, you _can’t_. I’ll hurt you. I _did_ hurt you,” Dean mumbles. “Gotta stay away, where I can’t reach you.”

“You can’t hurt him now,” Crowley says. Gentle hands pull him back against chair. “Have some water, Dean.”

Cas offers the water bottle and one of Crowley’s hands lifts it to his lips. Dean forces himself to relax into Crowley’s hold. Crowley might let him hurt someone, but between the two of them… surely they won’t allow him to hurt a civilian? Anyone who doesn’t deserve it?

Sucking in a deep breath, Dean fights through the sobs that choke him. He’s utterly without his usual defenses and--

The grace burns like dry ice against with his skin, melting into the Mark and pulling him out of his body.

He thinks he hears Cas shout his name, but then he’s gone.

* * *

“Dean!” Frantically, Castiel meets Crowley’s eyes over Dean’s shoulder. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley snaps. “We’re working on guesswork and wishes here.” Closing his eyes, he thinks for a moment. “How much of grace is left?”

Lifting the shaker, Castiel eyeballs it. “A quarter? Maybe a bit less?”

“Take it back,” Crowley orders. “Better a low powered angel than no angel at all.”

“What are you--”

“Getting you power.” Grabbing a blood filled syringe from the pile of materials set out, Crowley yanks his shirt and jacket sleeves up and shoves it into his arm. Pressing the plunger, he shudders before pulling the needle out and tossing the syringe to the side. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus… hanc animam redintegra… Lustra! Lustra!_ ”

Castiel watches the veins of Crowley’s meat suit burn red for a moment before he slumps backwards, into the devil’s trap. “Crowley?”

“Absorb the grace, superpower with the soul, guide the grace in Dean,” Crowley chokes out.

“I can’t--”

“ _Fix Dean_ , angel. That’s the whole point of this.” Crowley shudders.

Frantically, Castiel lifts the remainder of his grace and breathes it in. It rushes through him, lighting up connections he thought were lost forever. He gives it a second to settle while figures out his next move.

Beside him, Dean starts to jerk wildly, his face ashen and nearly death-gray.

They should have thought about this possibility.

Leaving Crowley slumped on the floor, Castiel jerks a knife through the ropes tying Dean to the chair, pulling him off and laying him out on the floor. Dean continues to seize, his neck wire tight.

Castiel drags Crowley next to him before leaning down. “Forgive me,” he whispers and shoves one arm into Crowley’s chest and the other into Dean’s.

Crowley’s soul-- still untwisting, but already more human than demon-- is like lightning. It arcs against Castiel’s true form, searching out and finding his grace like a magnet. Sucking in a breath, Castiel closes his eyes and tries to focus on the grace inside Dean.

The healthy greens, blues, and golds of Dean’s soul are twisted into muddy brown, shot through with neon-poison green and burning red. His grace lays over top like a wet noodle, accomplishing _nothing_.

Castiel pauses, not quite praying, before plunging forward. The grace… perks up as soon as it senses the grace within Castiel, finally reacting to the demonic taint that is overtaking Dean.

Settling down, he slows his perception of time, carefully sieving Dean’s soul through his grace, filtering out the demon. Crowley’s soul creeps along with his grace, helping, corralling, with increasing awareness and agency.

It’s good that Crowley is there to help. The Mark requires more and more of his attention, twisting and prying and trying to escape the strict limits Castiel has imposed on it. It mutates, taking on the colors of Dean’s soul, trying to blend back in, and he almost loses it--

Dean is there, weak, but starting to pull the sticky black from his own soul, tossing it away with Crowley’s help.

It takes forever and no time at all. The Mark is mindless and persistent, always pushing, tainting Castiel’s grace where it touches, until the blue-white is closer to gray and…

Dean’s soul heaves again, one last time, a twisting dive that pushes the Mark and grace together through the open wound in his arm to spill across the floor.

Castiel waits a heartbeat-- who’s, he can’t tell with all three of them tangled together like this-- before unknotting them, separating them all into individual souls. Carefully pushing Crowley back into his own body, and then dragging his arms from both Dean and Crowley, he collapses forward, barely missing the gray puddle of demonic goo.

The sudden shock of the cold dungeon floor against his chest makes him cough, hacking grace-laced phlegm onto the floor. He can vaguely hear Crowley and Dean stirring behind him, but doesn’t pay attention until a warm hand runs up his spine to rest at the base of his neck. The warmth soaks through his thin t-shirt, easing the spasms.

Castiel rolls his back, pressing up against the pressure, before forcing himself to flip over and sit up.

Crowley is lying nearby, splayed across the floor, blinking up at the ceiling. Castiel rests a hand on his ankle, squeezing slightly so Crowley knows he’s there. Turning slightly, he looks at Dean, leaning against Castiel to avoid the goo.

“We should clean that up,” Castiel rasps, trying to convince his limbs to move in any meaningful fashion.

Crowley grunts, pulling his arms in and forcing himself up. Dean just looks around silently, fear splashing across his face before he shifts away from Castiel, hunching in on himself.

“Cas!” Sam yanks open the shelves, spilling the bright florescent lights from the storage section into the dungeon. “Jesus fuck, you’ve been screaming for like five minutes and then just stopped--” He stops dead, looking at Dean.

Dean closes his eyes. “Heya, Sammy. You look worried,” he whispers. As if he’s not just as worried.

Jumping back, Sam reaches for a weapon before Castiel tiredly raises his hand. “He’s alright, Sam.” Making a face, he spits a final glob of grace onto the floor and scrapes his tongue against his teeth.

“Containment spell, lead lined curse box, and strongest anti-curse vial we were able to find,” Charlie rattles off as she bustles in, juggling things. “Kevin’ll come help as soon as we verify everyone’s safe.”

Dean flinches, but carefully turns both arms outward. A red blotch occupies his arm where the Mark resided, skirted by a sluggishly bleeding cut that trails halfway down his arm. “All clear, promise.”

“Yay,” Charlie blurts out, before glancing at the puddle on the floor. “Right. Evil mercury spill of doom cleared for clean up. Kevin and I’ll take care of this, you guys go… get some sleep before you fall over or something.”

“Thanks, guys,” Dean mumbles, leaning heavily against Castiel again.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it. The end. Finally.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who came along with me on this ride, _especially_ the ones who have been there from the beginning, cheering me on, talking things out, helping me figure out how to make this a coherent story instead of me bitching about how Abaddon deserved a better death.   
> So, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to: ThayerKerbasy (expert in all things Crowley); Trisscar (expert in all things Bunker); FormidablePassion (handholding); Dorkael (handholding, cheerleading, and several bottles of wine because that's what friends do for each other); and all the denizens of Weekend Writing Marathon and All SPN Ships.

They sleep for nearly three days before dragging themselves from Dean’s bed into the kitchen. Cas and Crowley collapse at the table and stare into space while Dean beats the coffee maker into submission, forcing it to spew out life-saving caffeine. He glances at Cas and Crowley occasionally, still silent, before looking back at the coffee maker.

He didn’t know they could be this awkward with each other anymore.

Crowley shifts on his stool after a couple minutes. “As lovely as this has been, I suspect it’s time for me to go.”

“Go where?” Dean asks, Cas echoing him a half beat later. “You can’t go back to Hell.” Coffee finally done, Dean slops some into three mugs and passes them around the table. “Unless you want to be out on your own.”

Crowley shrugs, looking more insecure than Dean’s ever seen him. “No, but you and Feathers… And Kevin...”

“Shut up and sit back down,” Cas orders with a yawn. “We don’t care. Stay here, with us, until you have somewhere else to go. If you actually want to go anywhere.”

Crowley looks up at Dean, like he’s still unsure of his welcome.

“You’re staying,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t want you out of our sight, too much risk of you getting black bagged or something.” Wrapping his hands around his coffee mug, his shoulders slowly leave his ears as he relaxes. “We’ll probably have another disaster on our hands soon, so why bother leaving?”

“I don’t--”

Cas rests his hand on Crowley’s arm. “At least take long enough to get used to mortality again,” he says softly. “You don’t need to hide from us.”

Crowley’s grin is brittle, like it’s going to break any moment. “Crow, stay.” Biting his lip, Dean reaches forward hesitantly, stretching across the table to grab Crowley’s hand. “We can make this work. And you don’t want to leave anyway.”

Crowley shrugs. “I’m aware of how your brother and prophet feel about me. You don’t need to coddle me.”

“Sam’s a big boy,” Charlie cuts in from the doorway. “More than capable of figuring out how to deal with his brother’s boyfriend--s? If he can’t, tell him to figure out his own shit.”

Dean skips right over the boyfriend question, because he doesn’t know and doesn’t want to get his hopes up. “It’s not that easy.”

She shrugs, pouring her own cup of coffee and grabbing the stool at the table next to Dean, across from Crowley. “It’s only complicated if you make it be. You’re long past the age where your siblings get a say in your partners.” Pulling out her tablet, she pushes it to the center of the table. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because there’s no rest for the wicked.”

It’s a spontaneous combustion case-- a waiter at a high end restaurant went up in flames during the dinner rush. “Sounds witchy,” Dean grumbles, skimming the article before passing the tablet to Crowley and Cas. “I hate witches.”

“Something about it feels familiar,” Crowley agrees frowning. “We need more information before we go charging in there.”

“Yeah, well, if it were up to me, you wouldn’t be hunting yet. But every monster that’s been hiding for the last six months has come bursting out of the woodwork. Plus all our ghosty friends.”

“What’s Sam think of this?” Cas asks, tapping the screen.

“Dunno, didn’t run it by him. He’s packing for a siren hunt with another hunter.”

“Another hunter? I thought--”

“Eileen’s been playing lone ranger for over three months,” Charlie snaps. “Sam was looking for something to do since he figured you three would want some privacy for--” She waves a hand vaguely. “Whatever comes next. So yeah, he’s meeting up with Eileen.”

“So you’re running dispatch now?” Cas asks, hesitantly. “I thought--”

Charlie shrugs. “Henry’s been gone for six months and the efficiency of the network is way down. We’re gonna need to get some research help in the Bunker while Gavin and I are with Kevin, but dispatch can happen anywhere.”

“If you’re sure,” Dean starts. “We can find other options…”

“Winchester. Trust me. Go hunt down a witch,” Charlie says sternly. “By the time you’re done with that, I’ll have a better handle on what Gavin and I need.”

Crowley frowns, glancing between Dean and Charlie. “I suppose at some point, Gavin and I should… air our laundry. If we’re going to work together.”

Dean shrugs. “If you want. God knows Sam and I’ve got family we don’t talk to that are in the same line of work.”

“You can work up to it,” Cas says, patting Crowley’s arm before sliding his empty coffee mug towards Dean. “Think of it as a second chance-- I don’t think he knows who you are anyway.”

“It never came up.”Charlie shakes her head. “You’ve not been around much the past few months and then everything with Kevin getting kidnapped and all…”

“Awesome,” Dean says, refilling all their coffee mugs. “So witch hunt for us, dispatch for Charlie and Gavin, college for Kevin.” He sighs. “At least the world is just gonna keep on spinning.”

Charlie huffs and taps her mug on the table before leaving.

“The witch is Rowena,” Crowley says quietly. “I’m pretty sure. The one who kidnapped Kevin.”

“All the more reason to put an end to her,” Dean responds. “How do you know?”

Crowley snorts and takes a long drink of his coffee. “There’s only about three witches who would be powerful enough and stupid enough to do something so public, and only one of them is known to be in the States.” Tapping a finger against his coffee mug, he takes a deep breath. “And I recognize the spell. She always liked to be flashy.”

Dean frowns. “You recognize... wait. You said your mom was a witch.”

“She also tried to sell me for three pigs once.” Crowley huffs. “I really doubt she’ll care one way or the other, so why should I?”

“She won’t even recognize you,” Dean points out, reaching for his hand again. “It’s been a few years after all, and a face change.”

Cas laughs quietly and drains his coffee. “In any case, we should get going. I’m sure we can figure out what’s next while we drive.”

Dean bites his lip, glancing between the two of them. “You’re cool with this? Really?”

“Yes, Squirrel, we’re certain. Although we need to go shopping on the way-- Feathers might have spare clothes, but I’m not hunting in _Armani_.”

Dean never doubted that Cas is the bravest of all of them, but somehow he’s still shocked when Cas draws Crowley into a brief kiss. “Only the best of mass produced jeans and shirts for our favorite former demon.” Cas laughs before pushing to his feet. “We should get going.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean mumbles, trying to unswallow his tongue. He definitely is going to need to find time for the three of them somewhere between this hunt and coming back to the Bunker. Shaking his head, he grins. “Wheels up in twenty, and you two are in charge of figuring out how to get Zero and Juliet there without ruining the seats of my baby.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says, rolling his eyes.

“We wouldn’t want to get black dog and hellhound fur on your seats. You know, the two forms of dog that are mostly incorporeal and probably couldn’t shed if they tried.”

“You’re making fun of me,” Dean pouts.

“Yes, we are.” Crowley leans over to peck a kiss onto Dean’s cheek. “Go pack, Squirrel. We’ll be ready.”

Dean reaches over, pulls Cas close to kiss him too and then heads towards their room. Time to get back to work.


End file.
